


No Country For Heroes

by greenfairy13



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Horror, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, M/M, No Man's Land, Whump, dark!Oswald, dub-con, mentions child loss, non-con kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24100369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenfairy13/pseuds/greenfairy13
Summary: The GCPS turns Jim in, in change for Oswald's protection.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Comments: 100
Kudos: 75





	1. Superhero

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt 'beg'.

“So pretty. Pretty, pretty, pretty,” Oswald murmurs reverently, caressing Jim’s face softly. He gazes down upon him, lovingly almost. “My Detective.” He sounds awe-stricken. 

The gentle expression vanishes, gets replaced by something more collected, businesslike, and then Oswald’s flat palm connects with the right side of his face. The sting doesn’t hurt, not really, but Jim still splutters, coughs, and spits out some blood onto the spotless floor. 

The Penguin grins, satisfied, as he orders Penn to pay the price for his precious, little treat. 

As opposed to other people, Jim Gordon knows exactly what his life is worth: ten thousand bullets and a vague promise. It’s not much. Not at all. 

In the end, it had been his own people, his colleagues, his friends to turn him in for their safety. Jim can’t blame them for their weakness but he thinks if they had already been given the chance to hand him over dead _or_ alive, they should have gone for dead - not half-dead. 

Farns, the cop who had been given the ‘honor’ of delivering Jim, releases him. Without the extra support, he’s unable to hold himself upright, stumbles, and crashes to the floor. 

And finally, he’s lying at Cobblepot’s feet, clutching his broken ribs. 

Smiling satisfied, the kingpin waves at his underlings, shooing them away like annoying flies. 

“My darling detective,” Oswald coos. Grabbing a fistful of Jim’s hair, he yanks his head up, forces him to look him in the eye. “Get up!” he orders then roughly, his voice a stark contrast to the sugar-sweet tone from only seconds ago. 

Jim scrambles for some leverage, tries regaining his footing, and fails miserably. “Can’t,” he wheezes as Oswald hoovers above him, observing his misery with sadistic glee. 

Too exhausted to move, Jim falls flat on his back and closes his eyes. He feels the cane pressing against his throat, only hesitantly at first. Jim knows at one point the force weighing down on his larynx will become unbearable. 

When looking up at Oswald, he finds the other man scrutinizing him with a strange expression, torn somewhere between curiosity, disappointment, and _fondness_. 

He bends down, invades Jim’s personal space, knowing exactly the other can’t escape his grasp, not now, not ever again. His eyes sweep up and down his body, devour him hungrily, and Jim has never felt more like prey. This Penguin is about to rip him apart like a fish, he thinks, when he places a hand on his chest, right above his broken rib. 

He presses down, _hard._

The scream torn from Jim’s throat echoes through the empty hall, ringing painfully in both their ears. 

Oswald laughs. 

“My brave hero,” he whispers when Jim is somewhat able to think clearly again. “What are you going to do now,” he wonders as he meticulously starts loosening Jim’s tie. For the first time, the detective is truly afraid of what the Penguin is capable of. 

He pulls the tie from his neck, inspects the fabric expertly, nods to himself, and stuffs the whole thing into Jim’s mouth. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Oswald informs him, smiling apologetically. “But our former encounters gave me the impression you’re not really good at listening.” He puts his hand back onto Jim’s chest. His forefinger lingers above the button of his shirt. It twitches, settles onto the plastic, and Jim is almost certain he’ll…

Oswald rips his entire shirt open before Jim has a chance to blink. They both gasp, likewise shocked. 

The tie slides further into Jim’s throat, he tries sitting up, fights to spit it out, yet the mobster pins him down. He catches on, though, and shows the slightest bit of mercy by adjusting his gag. 

“My dear Jim,” Oswald starts as he takes out a handkerchief and starts wiping the blood from his face. “I always wondered, have you ever begged for anything?” 

A curious hand caresses his torso, stops now and then at a more prominent scar before coming to a halt above the bleeding stab-wound at his side. He probes it, circles it with his nails, smearing the blood over pale, sweat-slickened skin. 

“I always preferred knives,” he states. “Stabbing someone is just so much more personal, _intimate_ , if you know what I mean.”

Jim can’t suppress a shudder. He’s got a pretty good idea what Oswald means. 

“It’s not too deep,” he adds, pressing his digit inside the bleeding hole without warning. If not for the gag, Jim would have screamed. Unfazed, Oswald sits down beside him, leans back against the wall, and gets comfortable. 

“You’ll live, should you be given proper medical attention in the next couple of hours,” he declares. “Which you will,” he adds as an afterthought. 

“Now,” Oswald continues, clapping his hands in excitement. “Back to my previous question. Have you ever begged for anything? And I don’t mean your usual barks and orders. Have you ever gotten down on your knees and truly begged? You can shake your head or nod,” he instructs dismissively. 

Jim feels hot, salty tears pooling in his eyes. The pain from Oswald’s latest attack fades ever so slowly, he can still feel the tremours rocking through his entire body. He wishes for the sweet numbness of unconsciousness to come and take him. Jim doubts Oswald will allow it. 

He nods mutely. 

“Ah,” Oswald says. “Did you beg for yourself or for someone else? Nod if it was for yourself, shake your head if it was for someone else.”

He shakes his head. 

“That’s excellent progress,” the Penguin praises, lips curling into a satisfied smile. Under different circumstances, Jim would say he looks charming. 

“Now, Jim. I have made a deal with our government. Once Gotham is under my control, I’ll be declared mayor again and given full authority by the state. As we are speaking, your former colleagues are executing a strike. Besides, I have made some negotiations. I can’t tell you too much right now, but I’m positive we’ll get reconnected with the mainland in about five to eight weeks. In the meantime, I’m being granted all the supplies I need.” 

He pauses, combs a bloody strand out of Jim’s face and sighs. 

“So you see, _old friend_ , there’s no one left to beg for - except for yourself, that is.” 

Oswald chuckles and it has no right to sound as endearing as it does. 

Jim tries to speak, wants to answer, and at last, Oswald has pity on him. 

“They’ll never allow for you to rule over Gotham,” he chokes out once the other man has removed the gag. 

The mobster purses his lips. “Jim, my darling detective,” he drawls, “they already did. All they asked for me in return was for you to get removed. You have been everyone’s sore spot all those years.” 

Reaching for his cane, he gets up again. Staring down at Jim, he gives him a pitying look. 

“This is no country for heroes, James,” he admits wistfully. “On some days, I wish it was. But the truth is, at the end of the day a human being is worth the power it holds. And you disturbed the old order constantly. So they turned to me. I’m sorry, James.” 

It sounds like he truly is. 

Bending down once more, Oswald drops to his knees beside Jim. Despite the pain the motion must have caused him, he doesn’t wince. “I still haven’t gotten my retaliation for my leg,” he muses. Placing his thumb onto Jim’s chapped lips, he forces his mouth open. The detective holds his breath and Oswald releases him. 

For the slightest moment, the gangster looks uncertain but then he presses the chastest kiss against his lips. It’s a strangely sweet, delicate kiss. 

He squeezes Jim’s knee slightly as he gets up. “Do you remember the first time we met? What I could do with a bat? I’d hate if I had to do that to you.” 

“Then don’t,” Jim snaps back. 

The ghost of another smile flickers across the Penguin’s face. “Then _beg_ for it. Beg for yourself. For once.”

Strangely, it’s Oswald who is begging. 


	2. Defining Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Penguin decides what to do with Jim Gordon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write a dark Oswald for so long. So I decided to add to the first chapter which started out as a one-shot. I'm sorry. Oh, and keep in mind, everything gets worse before it gets better.

It’s fitting, in a way. They dragged him in half-dead, they are keeping him half-alive now. 

Jim isn’t sure how long he has been there. He only knows his entire body is burning up while his teeth won’t start clattering. The blanket they gave him is not big enough to cover him entirely. Not that it would do anything anyway to keep him warm, sweat-sodden as it is. 

Now and then, a doctor comes. At least Jim believes he’s a doctor. He can’t even tell if it’s night or day when he arrives, for the room he’s being kept in has no windows. It’s a small cell - only big enough for a single bed, a toilet, and a sink. 

The medic arrives and tends to Jim’s wound. By this point, the detective barely whimpers when he carves out the puss with a sharp scoop. He tells Jim he’s sorry and that they ran out of antibiotics. Jim takes a good look at his face, notes the eerie smile, and doesn’t believe him for a single second. He looks somehow familiar but before he can figure out who it might be, he passes out.

Small blessings. 

When he wakes up, Jim thinks he can hear Harvey’s voice and Cobblepot. “Now you’ve seen him,” the Penguin snarls, clearly exasperated. “It’s not due to my men’s doings he’s in this dire condition,” he adds. “I’ll keep my promise, I’ll keep him alive,” Cobblepot finishes solemnly and Jim shudders. It sounds like a threat. 

He makes it to the toilet the next time he regains consciousness and even manages to drink some water from the tap before collapsing again. 

When waking up again, he’s hooked to an IV, and his head is spinning.

Oswald is watching him from the door, a wide, toothy grin plastered all over his face. 

“Itsy bitsy, toothy teeth,” Jim thinks in his half-delirious state. He starts laughing. ‘Toothy teeth’, that sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? They are sharp like daggers, though, and oh so pearly-white. Jim remembers when they used to be yellow, and full of stains. Oswald hadn’t had the money for a dentist back then. Now, they look like rows and rows of knives carved from ivory. 

Jim waits for him to unhinge his jaw and swallow him whole. 

He blinks, sits up, and shakes his head in an attempt to sober up enough to deal with the gangster. 

“What do you want from me?” he snaps, more harshly than is probably wise. But then given his current state, he’s as threatening as a kitten hissing at a snake. 

As expected, Oswald’s smile merely widens in response, mocking him. “What I want?” he drawls, studying the detective intently. 

Pushing himself from the wall, he limps closer. The bed dips under his weight, and just like that, he’s sitting next to Jim, so close he can feel the other man’s warmth. The detective tries to move away, to get some space between the two of them, but Oswald is having none of it. 

He catches Jim’s bruised hand in his gloved one, inspects the blue and black marks blossoming on his knuckles. Pressing down in a silent warning, he halts the former cop in his tracks. 

To an innocent bystander, they’d look serene, like two old friends united in worry for each other’s fate. 

Jim gasps softly when Oswald increases the pressure. The motion could be comforting.

“What I want,” he repeats pensively. “There are a lot of answers to this question, detective,” he ponders. “So I’m sorry,” he says, directing his gaze at the man next to him, “this might take some time.”

“Then go on,” Jim urges through gritted teeth and Oswald smirks.

“So much bravado,” the mobster acknowledges. “Even now.” Leaning in closely, he whispers, “I can see the fear in your eyes.” 

Jim wants to jerk away from his grasp but Oswald’s fingers clench around him like a vice.

“Do you think someone will save you?” he asks haughtily. “Do you think someone will bust through that door, knock me out, and carry you to safety?” He yanks the detective closer, until he’s all but breathing into his face. “I’ll tell you a secret, Jim. All these good people, those honest Gothamites you kept safe for months didn’t hesitate to sacrifice you. That freedom, that justice you offered them, meant nothing to them. Even Harvey couldn’t deny the temptation of exchanging you for a chance to have his old life, his old comfort back.”

Jim’s eyes widen in shock before he finally pulls his hand free. 

“Liar!” he growls. 

The Penguin tilts his head and sighs, pity written all over his features. “He couldn’t wait to take the bribes off my hands once they appointed him Captain, don’t you remember? I promised him to keep you alive, and that I did.” He nods, obviously pleased with himself. 

Getting up from the bed, Oswald starts pacing the room. “I have been this city’s mayor before,” he mutters. “I did good, kept the crime-rates low and the streets safe. I built hospitals and renewed the streets, staffed schools. The moment Ed shot me it was all forgotten,” he reminisces bitterly. 

“They couldn’t wait to toss me back into the gutter, to depict me as a monster. Do you think it would be different with you?” he scoffs, turning to Jim. “I had been their hero and their villain and so have you,” he challenges. 

“They will carry you on their shoulders and praise your name as long as you benefit them, James. And when I demanded  _ you _ , they decided that indeed, you have always been the villain to keep them from getting reconnected with the mainland.” 

Shaking his head fondly, he walks back to the bed. “This city makes or breaks you,” he whispers, placing his hands on Jim’s shoulders.

“So, pray tell, why do you want me?” the cop urges. 

Oswald opens his mouth and closes it again, seemingly staring at a point in the distance. 

“I want revenge, Jim,” he admits softly. “I need retaliation for Arkham, for every time you betrayed me, rejected my friendship…” His voice breaks off and Jim feels a cold shiver running down his spine. 

Tilting his head, he inspects the former detective. “I never wanted your death,” he confesses. “Not even when I put the bounty on your head. I dreaded the possibility of someone dragging your cold, lifeless body into my house.”

Unshed tears glisten in the mobster’s eyes. Reaching out, he touches Jim’s face hesitantly, starts following the lines of his features with long, cold digits. The cop lets him, frozen in fear by the implications of the Penguin’s request.

“You were the rare exception in this city. The good, good man. Sure, you’d make your hands dirty, turn to me when there was no one else to turn to, but once you had gotten what you wanted, you’d betray me to my face.”

Swallowing heavily, Jim tries regaining his voice. He’s still feverish, weak, can feel the cold sweat dripping down his forehead. “And you allowed it,” he rasps out. “Every time. And you always knew right from the start that it would end that way.”

The Penguin smiles, sadly, longingly. “I had always so much hope,” he whispers. “So much hope you’d realize how much I used to love you.” 

When leaning forward, Jim thinks he’ll kiss him again. The cop’s mouth drops open. He knew, of course, he knew. What kind of detective would he be if he didn’t realize what had been obvious for so long? It would probably be a good moment to remind Oswald of that fact, of him being a detective - or of all the times he looked the other way when the Penguin committed another crime. 

His mouth runs dry though when the other man starts running his hands down his torso. “I had a stepmother, briefly,” he shares. “I had also stepsiblings,” he carries on. “They poisoned my father. So I cut them into little pieces and fed them to their mother.” 

The smile contorting his features when sharing this tidbit of information will haunt Jim Gordon forever. 

“That was after Arkham,” he declares. “They made me  _ good _ there, Jim,” he adds, directing his gaze back at the detective. “They took apart my entire being, my personality, my very core, and pieced it back together according to their vision.”

Jim wants to protest how they obviously didn’t achieve anything there but keeps his mouth shut for once. This time, he’s smart enough not to taunt the mobster even more.

“Grace, my stepmother, in a way she helped me become myself again,” he muses. “When they released me, I felt sane - but never just quite.” His lower lip quivers and Jim wonders if he should offer some comfort. Finally making a decision, he places a slightly trembling hand above the one still laying on his torso. 

Gratefully, Oswald squeezes his fingers lightly. 

“There was always something off with me though, when they released me. Did you ever dring rotten milk from a box? It tastes normal at first, but then you smack your lips, and it’s there, this slightly sour, rotten taste. You need a moment to catch on, because your body wants to taste this regular milk so badly. At some point, you have to swallow, though. And there’s the clump, and you can’t continue pretending.” 

With a sigh, he lies down next to Jim. “My father was a good man, like my mother. They could have never harmed anyone. So, so good...just like you.” 

Burying his head in Jim’s neck, he inhales deeply. The cop stiffens, before awkwardly patting his back, unsure how to answer all that. 

“Grace, she accused me of being a rapist.” The criminal shudders in silent disgust. “I protested, of course. Yet she looked at me  _ that way _ , as if I only hadn’t committed this particular crime  _ yet _ .” 

Oswald’s voice is full of desperation when he speaks again. “Who would be as pathetic as to take love by force. But looking at you,” his voice breaks off when reaching again for Jim, hunger written all over his face. “I want you so much.” 

The cop swallows. Whatever he says now, whatever he does, is crucial. Somehow he knows that even a false movement could end him for good. 

Suddenly, Oswald jumps from the bed as if something had bitten him. Straightening out his suit, he narrows his eyes at Jim. “I could make you want me to,” he blurts out. “I learned everything I need at Arkham, I watched Victor doing his magic,” he shares. Working himself up into an excited frenzy, he starts pacing the room and Jim has had enough of it. 

“You want to  _ what _ ?” he snorts, appalled. “Brainwash me into loving you?” The words come out too harshly, and Jim realizes his mistake instantly, but nevertheless too late. 

Oswald halts in his tracks, eyes wild and as feverish as Jim feels. “Yes! Yes!” he exclaims. “Exactly that.”

Jim Gordon had been afraid of the Penguin before. When he had only been an overeager little umbrella-boy, a creep who used to lurk in the dark, stalking him and his then-fiancée, he had been repulsed, disgusted even with him, yet now, he learns what true terror means. 

With a shudder, he pulls the blanket around his shoulders, presses his entire body against the bed-frame. He feels like a child, hiding in his bed from the monsters, too terrified to get up and turn the lights on. Except, this monster is standing before him in broad light, entirely unwilling to go away.

But there’s not only fear. Even if he rarely admits it, Jim knows somewhere deep inside of him that he helped to shape this particular monster that came to haunt him today. This beast had been molded from grief and betrayal. The cop recognizes a broken heart when he sees one, and a part of him wants to reach out, give in, and grant him his wish. 

And there’s another part, one Jim keeps hidden even from himself. It would probably be wise to speak about it  _ right now _ , but just like his gangster, he is a fool, full of hope. 


	3. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim negotiates his fate with the Penguin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for commenting! I hope the story continues to live up to your expectations. After this chapter, the true 'fun' will start.

Jim was a man who used to believe in innocence. He didn’t need proof, didn’t look for it, never searched it where it came to his conviction that ultimately the human race was - at its core - good, worth his protection. But that’s the thing with faith, it’s unprovable, it can be shaken, and it can get lost. Children, who are regarded as the prime example of innocence, can do horrid things without even realizing the brutality of their act, oblivious as they are. Maybe that’s true innocence though, doing the most hideous crime and not understanding the implication of your action. 

Oswald looks at Jim with huge, shining eyes, his mouth forming a perfectly round ‘O’. It’s the expression of a kid when being told that, yes, it can have the entire birthday cake, all the presents are indeed theirs, and there won’t be any repercussions for just diving right in and taking it all. 

He reaches out with a movement full of adoration and even with the cop slumped against the bedframe, clutching the metal for support, Oswald seems to be staring up at him. Biting his lip and tilting his head, he offers Jim his hand for support. 

Enraged, the cop swats it away, watching how the gangster’s features contort in rage. He really is a kid, Jim thinks, as Oswald huffs out an offended breath, instantly pulling his hand back. The cop waits for him to go into one of his rants, his little fits of rage, in which he starts lashing out like a kid who had been denied his will. 

Jim can’t help it. Despite, or maybe because of his tremendous fear, he fights back. He was never one to sit in the corner for long. Hell, he went up against Falcone, tore down the city’s old order single-handedly, shook Gotham to her core, tossed her into chaos, and gave his everything to pull her out of the abyss. If the Penguin wants not only his life but his entire being, he’ll have to earn it. 

It is stupid, Jim knows that. But he’s just the kind of man who reacts to immense terror with rage. He’ll bite back, fight like a force of nature until his heart stops beating. They have that in common, he and the Penguin, that untamable temper.

“And this woman, Grace, she was right,” Jim pants once he can stand somewhat steadily. He grinds his teeth together in an attempt to suppress the violent shivers and waves of heat rocketing through his body. He can almost taste the darkness about to take him over. His body is failing him, or protecting him - Jim isn’t quite sure - as every fiber of his being screams for him to lay down and collapse again. 

“You said you want to turn me into a zombie,” he accuses, still not really capable of fully grasping the concept. His initial shock morphed into incredulity as the minutes passed by. He partly wants to laugh all of this off, drop back on the bed, and trust that once he wakes, he’ll be back in his shitty apartment, waking from a particularly vivid nightmare. 

And then this is  _ just _ Oswald. The boy he pulled from death’s grasp, the little wannabe who had a gigantic crush on, adored him like a lovestruck teenager.

Jim wishes he had the strength to pin him to the wall like all those times before, fingers just itching to squeeze the life out of him because he always knew. He always had a foreboding the gangster would be his downfall. 

There had always been something about him. Something that likewise attracted and almost disgusted the cop, a draw he fought but could never truly deny. He should have known he lost the fight the third time the Penguin rose to power, became the King of Gotham once more, and instead of being the man of the law Jim once vowed to be, he didn’t use all the obvious evidence connecting the criminal to his elegant system of organized crime but decided he’d rather see him thrown from his throne again than behind bars. 

It had been Oswald he chose to sacrifice his principles for - all of them - for better or worse. It started with them murdering a man together instead of arresting him, went on with betrayal when turning a blind eye to Oswald being tortured, and now this shall end with a vengeance. 

Jim always hoped though. Hoped the love the Penguin felt for him would protect him. But he said he  _ used _ to love him. Now with the protection gone, Jim feels desperation rising up his throat. He said he still felt desire though, and that's the chance Jim tries to latch onto. 

“Don’t you realize that if you turn me into your puppet, you’ll just have a doll with my face?” he barks out. “How is that not taking love by force as you put it?” he demands to know. 

The muscle in the corner of the criminal’s jaw twitches, silently indicating the oncoming storm. 

Unable to stop himself from pushing the criminal further, Jim raises his chin defiantly. He must be a sight, rumpled and beaten down, not even remotely attractive, and still, the Penguin follows his every movement, completely enraptured. 

"If that is what you want, I'll get down on my knees and suck you off," the detective offers, and he's not joking, even if it sounds like he does. 

Oswald weighs the cane in his hand deliberately, plays silently with the handle they both know contains a deadly dagger. The mobster blinks and Jim is almost certain he tries to hide some excess moist but that might only be his hope again. 

“No, I don't want you to,” he then says quietly. “Not like that.” The Penguin sighs with compassion. “Jim, really, you should sit down. You’ll pass out again,” he adds gently. “Can’t really catch you with my bad leg,” he informs him with a wry smile. 

“As if you’d care!” Jim snaps.

Oswald looks genuinely shocked. “I’d care a great deal,” he replies. “I thought that was obvious.”

Leaning heavily on his cane, he chooses his next words. “The thing is, my lovely detective, I might have, and I apologize for that, not picked the accurate words when presenting you with my plans for you. Arkham,” he pauses, scrunches up his face at mentioning the name of the facility, “Zsasz...they can’t procure anything that isn’t there. Not really.” 

Looking up at the detective, the gangster observes every twitch of Jim’s face. “When Zsasz reprogrammed Butch to follow my orders, he played on his desire for guidance, for a firm hand. He only broke free when being presented with something he desired much more - and that happened to be Fish. When Strange reprogrammed me to be good, he played on my desire to be  _ good _ .” 

Oswald lets out a shuddering breath. “I wanted to be good, loved. I wanted to be someone you could  _ want.  _ That was the reason it worked so well - for a while.” His voice cracks and Jim senses there is still much unsaid. He remembers the criminal coming to him after being released, the excitement written all over his face when turning up at his doorstep, the amount of trust…Jim swallows heavily around the lump forming in his throat. He didn’t believe him back then. 

“I’m sorry,” Jim whispers, meaning it. There’s not much more he can offer. 

Averting Jim’s eyes for a moment, the gangster looks at the floor in shame. Shaking off the unwelcome feeling, he directs his gaze back at Jim. “That’s why it would work exceptionally well on you, though.” 

“How?” Jim asks, caught off guard for a moment. 

“Because I’m convinced,” Oswald starts walking up to Jim, all but trapping him against the tiny bed, “it works better the more the other man wants what you are forcing him to do.” 

He pushes Jim onto the bed, meeting almost no resistance. “Cause see, Jim,” he continues as he gently wraps the blanket around the detective’s shoulders, “brainwashing doesn’t mean forcing someone to do something they don’t want to, but eliminating the characteristics, the barriers in your personality preventing you from doing what you denied yourself originally.” 

Oswald places his hand lightly on Jim's shoulder. It’s a motion meant to help him focus on the mobster’s words. 

“You can’t stop shaking,” the Penguin remarks. “Poor thing,” he adds, and there is it again, this worried tone. Damnation comes in the form of the most captivating man Jim has ever met. 

“I’m cold,” he chokes out, reaching for Oswald’s hand. 

“I know,” he nods. “I’ll take care of that,” he vows. “I should have never treated you like that, my Jim.” A blissfully cold hand is being placed on his forehead. “The way you have been treating me all those years…”

Jim wants to offer an explanation but Oswald is quicker - as always. “You just couldn’t admit you wanted me too, isn’t that right?” His eyes widen as he comes to the conclusion and Jim lacks the strength to protest. 

It’s not untrue anyway. Biting his lip, Jim tries to hide his reaction yet to no avail. His eyes drop to the Penguin’s mouth and for a moment, he allows himself to imagine what giving in would mean. 

Something changes in the Penguin’s posture then. He tenses up and relaxes at the same time. 

“You’d have to wipe out what you  _ like _ about me in order to force me to act out on that desire though,” Jim argues. “I’d  _ never _ ,” he emphasizes, “I could never choose you knowing what you did, what you’ll continue to do.” 

Oswald nods silently. 

“You have no remorse,” Jim acknowledges. “There’s nothing you wouldn’t do to gain power. And you don’t care how many get hurt in the process,” he finishes. 

“I’m very driven, just like you,” the Penguin admits lightly. Pursing his lips, he studies Jim’s disheveled form. “Don’t think I’m not considering what exactly I’d have to break to get what I want,” he hisses. 

The detective grits his teeth in defiance. 

“But then we share so much,” Oswald muses. “All you’d have to do was see the world from a different angle, from my angle to be precise. If you’d just understand.” Leaving the sentence hanging, he tilts Jim’s head up. 

“And if I told you I do understand?” the detective challenges. “Being selfish is so much easier,” he scoffs. 

To his surprise Oswald laughs. “You know, I wanted to wait until you are better,” he shares. “But you are right. I am selfish. And now that I have you in my possession,  _ I _ can’t wait.”

At a snap of his fingers, the door opens, revealing none other than Victor Zsasz. 

“Jim,” he promises, “True selfishness means absolute freedom. And I have every intention of giving it to you.” 

And so it starts. 


	4. Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald digs up some of Jim's suppressed memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: deals with Jim losing his and Lee's unborn child. 
> 
> Well...the first time I'm writing horror. This fic here is truly a project close to my heart so to everyone who commented so far: thank you very much! I hope you continue to enjoy it.

The first thing Jim notes when he wakes is the sunlight warming his face. He yawns as he stretches his legs, reveling in the feeling of smooth linen caressing his skin. Closing his eyes once more, he hugs his pillow tightly and decides to stay in bed for another five minutes. He sighs a deep breath of relief when inhaling Lee’s warm, clean scent. 

It had been nothing but a dream - all of it: the destruction of the bridges, their separation, the loss of their child, Galavan, Blackgate. None of that was real. 

Jim rolls over, pulls the blanket over his head, and closes his eyes. It feels good being at home again. Reaching out, he searches for his bedmate. With more than just slight disappointment he has to find out the other half of the bed is cold and empty. It gives him the motivation though to get up, brush his teeth, and get dressed. 

Once he’s ready, he pads into the kitchen, still tired and groggy. That’s nothing a good cup of coffee won’t fix though. 

He finds Lee there, as expected, a bright smile plastered all over her face. Jim stares at her, awed. Sometimes, he forgets how utterly, stunningly beautiful she is. She is a woman rivaled solely by mythological figures like Helen of Troy or the goddess Aphrodite - and she’s all his. 

Smiling, he presses a light kiss against her lips, wondering what he did to deserve such luck. 

Lee’s smile widens in response until her features are nothing but stretched lips and two rows of perfect teeth. It’s a smile that splits her face in half. 

“Our daughter has been asleep since you went away,” she informs him, the grin still frozen on her face. Turning around, she takes a cup from the cabinet and starts preparing coffee. “I thought you could watch over her this weekend.” 

Jim frowns. Aren’t they supposed to spend the weekend together? Before he can protest though, he hears the cry of a baby. 

“Ohhhhh,” Lee coos, dropping the mug carelessly to the ground. Scalding hot liquid pours all over the floor, wetting Jim’s socks instantly. He yelps when coming into contact with the substance but Lee merely pushes him away. 

The next thing Jim witnesses is Lee dragging in a white crib, singing merrily while doing so. 

_All around the cobbler's house_ ,

 _The monkey chased the people_.

 _And after them in double haste_ ,

 _Pop! Goes the weasel_.

She laughs out loud. Spinning on her heel, she turns back to Jim, eyes staring unnaturally wide, and exclaims, “The monkey chased the weasel!” Clapping her hands, she bends down to the crib, and that’s when Jim realizes it’s not a crib. 

Suppressing a shocked gasp, Jim lunges forward, tries pulling Lee away from the white thing. He opens his mouth, wants to scream, but the only thing that comes out is a shuddering breath. 

Lee steps aside, revealing a tiny coffin with exceptionally delicate carvings. She opens the lid, humming a soothing tune, and picks up a little baby wrapped in blankets made from silk and lace. 

“You’re awake!” she states, delighted. Cradling the baby lovingly in her arms, she starts walking up to Jim. “You’re only ever awake when daddy is home,” she murmurs, joy written all over her features. 

A cold shiver runs down Jim’s spine when she presents him the child expectantly. Tilting her head to the side, she studies the detective. “That’s our daughter, Jim,” she informs him. “You should at least hold her.” 

And there’s that smile again, an expression that doesn’t seem to come from this world but from a place far beyond, a spot much darker than Gotham on her worst day. 

Swallowing heavily, Jim raises his hands hesitantly. Lee is right, that is his child, he shouldn’t be afraid to touch her, hold her, love her, right? 

The creature in Lee’s arms suddenly screams. It’s a high-pitched whine, a bloodcurdling howl, yet Jim soldiers on, takes the baby from her hands, and glances down at its little head, partially obscured from view by the blanket. 

Jim makes out grey, sunken skin where rosy, chubby cheeks are supposed to be. His daughter screams again, louder this time, and her father wants nothing more than drop her to the ground, run from the room, and never stop again. He doesn’t. 

The skin around her mouth breaks, torn open by the force of her pain as an undefinable black liquid oozes out. 

“She’s hungry!” Lee squeals and Jim can’t take it any more. Pushing the baby back into her hands, he runs for the door, starts hammering against the wood with his fists when it won’t open. 

“But you can’t leave again!” she calls after him. “You promised, Jim. You promised,” she repeats accusingly. 

Looking over his shoulder, he finds Lee still standing there, the child pressed to her heart.

“Let me go!” he screeches, frantically rattling at the doorknob while his daughter’s screams become an unbearable crescendo. 

“But she’s hungry!” Lee snaps back. 

When Jim blinks, he’s seated at a table, and Jim thinks he’s definitely not supposed to be here. The entire room practically reeks money. He can make out hideous china, dark, polished wood, glasses so delicate he’s afraid to even touch them, and then there’s Lee. 

She’s sitting at the head of the table, Mario Falcone standing firmly behind her, the unearthly child now resting in her lap. When he leans over, she entwines her fingers with his, whispers something into his ear, and they both laugh at a joke only they are privy to. Blood is trickling down Mario’s face, a seemingly never-ending stream of red soaking the collar of his shirt. Lee touches his cheek, picks up some of the sticky liquid. 

Pushing a bloody finger into their daughter’s mouth, she finally silences her desperate screams. 

“Your daughter wants to eat,” she informs a horrified Jim. 

“That’s not our daughter,” he chokes out, unable to take his eyes off the creature. The moment he speaks those words, he knows they are untrue. Whatever it is Lee is holding, he knows for a fact he created it - one way or another. 

Lee shakes her head. “I pity you,” she spits. 

Mario opens his mouth, wants to say something but all he manages to create is a gurgling sound. Pulling the curtains in the dining-room back, he reveals Gotham’s skyline, engulfed in flames. 

“Why did you never came back?” Lee presses, yelping in pain when the child bites down on her finger, greedy for the blood she has to offer. “She’s just like you,” she mumbles in disgust. 

Jumping from his seat, Jim stumbles, falls to the ground, and watches as the flames burst through the window. 

“You did this!” Lee shouts, as the fire eats her alive, their daughter still screeching even when she’s slowly turning into nothing but a pile of dust.

Jim storms over, reaching for the curtains he tries putting the flames out, but Mario is faster. He snatches the cloth and throws it into the inferno. 

“Where’s the lie though?” he laughs as he joins Lee and Jim’s child. 

Jim Gordon wakes with a scream. Thrashing around and sweating profusely, he tries to gain back control over his body. Everything aches. He can still feel the heat, the fire burning his skin, baking him alive, he even smells the scent of scorched flesh, the sickeningly sweet odor of blood. 

Pulling at the bindings holding his arms in place, he exhausts himself. He can feel a metal ring around his head, pressing down on him like a vice - he wants it gone. 

Jim screams until he’s hoarse, and then he screams on. He’s not sure he can ever forget the picture of his family, the family he never had but always wanted, going down in flames. 

“Jim!” 

“Jim!”

“Jim!”

A familiar voice permeates the spell he’s under, breaks through the terror, slowly drawing him back to reality. There’s a hand on his chin, turning his chin despite the clamp holding it in place. It hurts. Jim likes _this_ pain, it grounds him

The Penguin’s face, Oswald’s, swims into his vision. Voice trembling slightly he asks, “are you with me?” 

“Lee…” the detective mutters, confused. 

“She’s fi..” he starts. Biting his tongue, he takes a step back. “She’s not here,” he informs him instead coldly. 

Taking in a shuddering breath, Jim tries to make sense of what happened. He stares down at his hands, tied securely to a chair, his legs bound in the same fashion, takes in grey walls, a tiny window up the ceiling in one corner, a projector. He must be in a basement. 

He searches the mobster’s face, opens his mouth. “It wasn’t real,” he mumbles, relieved. Jim wants to cry. If he could, he’d roll up in a corner and hug his middle tightly. 

“Oh, it wasn’t?” Oswald asks back, forcing Jim to direct his attention back at him. 

The mobster leans down, boring his eyes practically into Jim’s. “I never met a man living in such luscious denial as you,” he laughs. “I saw what you saw,” he taunts, pointing at the projector with gleeful sadism. 

“I merely saw what you wanted me to see,” the cop argues, doubt already creeping into his voice. He bites his lip. Did Oswald know about his daughter? How did he find out? Neither Lee nor he went around spreading the news. And when he’d been locked up in Blackgate, Lee moved away, escaped Gotham, if only temporarily. Yet it hadn’t been a secret...had it?

Glancing up at the gangster, Jim finds compassion in his posture. Head tilted slightly to the side, he kneels before Jim, one hand covering the shackle. He strokes his thumb lightly as he starts loosening the bindings. 

“You never think much about your actions, do you?” he inquires softly.

Jim doesn’t want to answer him. The man kidnapped him, tied him to a chair, did _whatever_ to his head. 

“You want to keep an entire city safe and can’t even protect your unborn,” Oswald presses as Jim’s left hand is finally freed. The statement cuts deeper than Jim wants to admit. 

“I did keep the city safe,” he shoots back haughtily. 

“So?” Oswald asks, bemused. “What did you really achieve?” he inquires curiously. 

The cop opens his mouth, tries coming up with a reply, and fails. Back then, he didn’t achieve much, they both know it. All he managed was getting arrested for murder; him going to Blackgate killed his daughter. 

The criminal squeezes his leg slightly and Jim finds himself relaxing into the touch. He stares down at the man in front of him, face open and honest. The cop swallows audibly. He wants to accuse Oswald, tell him this only happened because they killed Galavan together, because they needed to protect Gotham from a great terror. 

He can’t find it in him to blame Oswald. It had been his own choice to drove out to harbor with the criminal that night. 

That night, he crossed the line. He stopped being a cop and turned into a gangster himself. And then he continued making a mess of things. 

And ever since, he paid dearly for his mistake. Would things have turned out differently had he just confessed to Barnes?

Oswald’s lower lip quivers, he looks vulnerable down on the concrete. It’s a crazy thought - he’s the one still partially tied to a chair. 

“I just want you to know, if I could have, I would have done everything in my power to prevent all this,” Oswald informs him. Oddly enough, Jim believes him. 

He saw him with the little kid, Martin, knows how grateful he was after _that_ night. 

Pushing a hand through his hair, Jim shakes off those thoughts. The past is gone, he can’t change it, and neither can the Penguin. 

“What are you trying to prove with your little mind-games?” he asks instead gruffly. Jim hates how his voice trembles. He didn’t dare thinking about his daughter in years, and now the Penguin is practically forcing the memory from his head. He wants to be enraged, indignant about this assault. He simply accepts it. 

Shaking his head solemnly, Oswald takes the metal-helmet from Jim’s head. The pain shooting through his skull once the distraction from the pressure is gone, is excruciating. Unable to hold back the tears any longer, Jim starts to sob. It’s just the pain, he tells himself. Nothing he saw was real. He wants to bury the memories again, push them back into the deep pit where they belong. 

But it’s true - he left Lee when she needed him the most, unable to stay away from the siren-call that is blood and violence, the monkey chasing the people.

The criminal doesn’t answer Jim, not even as he gets up silently. 

“You had no right dissecting my memory,” he tries again, pushing for a reaction. 

The Penguin merely picks at his finger-nails, lost in his own thoughts. “I knew you had lost something very precious, too,” he shares instead. “I just didn’t know how precious indeed,” he sighs. He tries to solemn but Jim picks up on his eagerness and it alarms him. 

“That was a long time ago,” he brushes him off. It’s a lie, and they both know it. 

“It was the first thing on your subconscious,” Oswald states cooly. He brushes a strand of blonde hair back as he presses a sweet kiss against Jim’s forehead. “You and I will dissect your greatest failures, explore your greatest desires. And in the end, you’ll find I never was your enemy.” 

It sounds like a promise of absolution. 

Oswald is right in a sense, Jim never dwelled too much on his actions, simply kept running when the pain became unbearable, turned to booze when not even that could help. He wishes he could numb the pain in his arms, legs, and head right now with some whiskey. 

Raising his head slightly, Jim chases the feeling of Oswald’s lips against his skin. A twisted part of him is grateful the mobster found out about his daughter and unlike Lee, doesn’t judge him, offers some comfort. Until now, he didn’t know how desperately he needed this kind of forgiveness. 

“I always wanted a family,” he blurts out, gripping the armrest tightly. 

The Penguin nods as he fastens the bindings anew. 


	5. Consolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim slowly breaks down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for commenting! It means so much <3!

Jim doesn’t want to let Oswald into his head again. It hurts, hurts so bad like nothing ever did before. His head is on flames or feels like being sliced into tiny pieces by the Penguin’s beloved switchblades. It doesn’t matter anymore if he’s down in the basement, strapped to a chair and machinery he doesn’t even begin to understand, or locked in his tiny room. **  
**

His nose bleeds practically 24/7 at this point, and he has trouble walking due to his blurry vision. The kingpin’s brawny henchmen have to carry him down the halls and back again, else Jim merely stumbles aimlessly around. He wants it to stop, wants to sleep. Only when he sleeps, the pain becomes tolerable. That is until he wakes, soaked in sweat, screaming at the top of his lungs. 

And Oswald always seems to be around, seems to monitor each and every little move, every gasp, every breath. He’s at his peripheral vision, before him, beside him, whispering into his ear until Jim can’t listen to his voice any longer. He doesn’t understand the words, mostly, but this sizzling, soothing, whirring noise - it never stops. 

He doesn’t cave though, not yet. He has been through similar treatments before, broke free from Tetch’s hypnosis, withstood his virus longer than most, fought against Crane’s gas, coming out on top. 

This is no different, Jim keeps telling himself, straightens his shoulders as much as he still can, and tries forcing his legs to cooperate instead of leaning heavily against the shoulders of men who’d merrily slit his throat at a motion of Oswald’s hand. 

The Penguin is already there, standing in the corner, partially covered by dark shadows, partially accentuated by light. It’s not even bright, probably nothing more than a measly lamp, but it hurts Jim’s eyes. 

The figure approaches, rubbing a weary hand over his face. The corner of Oswald’s mouth twitches as he limps slowly across the floor. There’s a tremble in his leg and Jim wonders if that’s his doing, the gunshot wound. He straightens up more with each careful step he takes until the awkward gait is hardly perceivable. 

Face hardening into an unreadable mask, he waits for his underlings to fixate Jim once more. He’s so close during the entire procedure the cop can feel his warmth, soaks it up in his miserable state, for it’s the only comfort he’ll get in the next hours. Jim leans back against the chair, tries to find a somewhat comfortable position before he’s inevitably unable to move. 

His head drops heavily against Oswald’s shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he inhales the man’s cologne, a blur of incense and citrus, that effectively blocks the smell of cold, acidic sweat and blood, takes him back to the only vacation he ever allowed himself, right after leaving the army. Like everything in his life, even that ended in heartbreak. 

He rests like that for a moment. For whatever insane reason, he doesn’t shy away from Oswald’s touch in absolute disgust, not like he does when his henchmen manhandle him. 

Maybe it’s because they have known each for other years, maybe it’s because Oswald is the only one left showing him glimpses of compassion. He feels remotely safe for the time being. Long, spider-like fingers comb gently through his hair, easing the tension in his skull. 

He groans, undignified, when Oswald hugs him slightly from behind, and he wants to ask him to stop, not to flip the switch, to untie him, please, but his tongue is so heavy in his mouth. 

“Why me?” he manages to ask when the other man lets go of him. Jim gets it, he really does, if that is what they did to him in Arkham, he deserves to go through the same treatment. What he doesn’t get though is why Oswald wants him. He never showed the mobster much affection, kept pushing him as forcefully, as decidedly, away as possible. 

What never can be, must not be. 

Yes, there were times in which they worked together, killed together, in which the attraction was almost magnetic. He always felt a bit protective of Oswald, he had something fragile about him that never failed to tug at Jim’s inner machinations, pushed him to risk his life for the criminal, even if he hated himself for it, for feeling that way about a remorseless murderer. It made him bend his morals, give up on them at times in change for the fascination. 

He sometimes fantasized, when they were standing too close again, breath mingling, only a hair’s breadth from either kissing or slitting each other’s throats, and sometimes Jim wanted…

And then the fantasy would dissipate, Jim would remember why he couldn’t, wouldn’t, what the other man had done, what he would be willing to do in the future, what he’s currently doing to him. 

“Why me?” he manages to croak out again when Oswald turns to put the torture-device into action again, hand already reaching for the handle. Jim thinks he drags out the moment longer every time, probably enjoying his pain more with each day passing by. 

The gangster’s arm stills mid-air, his entire body tenses as he stops. Oswald doesn’t turn around, lowers his hand, takes a step forward, raises his arm again. There’s a hitch to his voice once he speaks again. “Because I can,” he replies.

“But why? Why me?” Jim urges frantically. He takes his chance as long he’s coherent enough to form a sentence. For sure a crush from years ago doesn’t justify such actions, right? 

Oswald hesitates. Jim sees it in the slight tremble running down his spine. He spins on his heels, eyes rimmed red, the black kajal slightly smudged. He bites his lower lip, studies Jim, really scrutinizes him, not just giving him a slight once over. 

Jim has no idea what he looks like, in what state he’s in, can’t even guess it quick enough for the Penguin brings his expression under control too quickly. He’s back at his side, a tissue in hand. Softly, he wipes the over Jim’s face and it feels reassuring. 

Oswald sighs. “A friend once told me love is about sacrifice.” He hesitates, adjusts Jim’s rumpled clothing carefully. “I’ve been told I’m not capable of love,” he elaborates sharply, and the cop feels his cheeks heating up. He isn’t sure if Oswald is talking about him, whether he threw those words into his face, unthinkingly. 

“That might be true,” the Penguin muses. “But I still want a friend…” He rearranges the ties, makes sure they don’t bite into the cop’s skin too forcefully. “And more,” he adds with a newfound determination, nodding his head slightly. “Gotham taught me to take what I need by force.” He punctuates his last word by pulling at the bindings again. 

This time, they go back to Barbara. It seems like Oswald wants to be privy to all of Jim’s most important memories. Somehow, he’s present at the gallery when they first met, standing behind Barbara. 

Jim was only there because the army handed out the tickets and Jim needed a day off - desperately. 

It’s true, he has never been especially interested in art, can’t even pronounce the painter’s name, Gauguin, correctly, but the bright colors are a welcome contrast to the countless shades of yellow he became accustomed to over the last years, so different from the desperation he felt so intensely he already believed it to be a part of his being. 

And then there’s Barbara. She is nothing like those dull colors in Afghanistan, all sophisticated beauty, and when she talks about those paintings paling in comparison to her, Jim finds himself infected with her zeal, listens to this enigmatic woman who has never been deprived of food or shelter in her life before, and decides he would never want it any other way. 

If he could, he would shield her from all evil, protect her innocence at all cost. 

Everyone thinks he’s after her for her money. Jim enjoys every second he spends in her company, soaking up her knowledge and passion. 

He gets down on his knees and promises to protect her forever. Can’t give her money but will gladly sacrifice his life for her. 

She gets bored with his desire to be a hero, with his long hours spent at the precinct. 

Barbara breaks his heart when she cheats on him. 

She loves an idea of him that has nothing to do with reality. 

He’d still rather die than see her suffer. 

One day, she’s gone, abducted, and Jim almost tears the city apart to get her back home, safe and sound. 

When he finds her, she’s not dead. It’s worse. She’s merely a shell of the woman she used to be. A corpse wearing Barbara’s face. 

She slips through his fingers, falls to the ground, shattering into thousands of pieces. 

Later, Jim will mask the shame and the guilt with nastiness, will push her away, disgusted with his own inability to protect her as he promised. It hasn’t been a lighthearted vow, despite what everyone thinks. 

Oswald smiles when her skull cracks, probes her lifeless body with the tip of his shoe. 

“You’re not really good at keeping your loved-ones safe, eh?” he states, painting stars onto the pavement with her blood. 

“Lee and Barbar lost their mind, your daughter her life.” 

He shakes Jim’s shoulder, rocks him back to reality. He seems smug, satisfied with himself. 

“That’s enough for today,” he declares, and Jim has a hard time differing the then from now. 

The feelings Oswald procured from his mind are so fresh Jim wouldn’t know what to do should Barbara walk through the door, the love he once felt again as palpable as it had been on the first day. 

He clings to the thought that none of that is real, that it’s just memories and cheap tricks. 

Oswald embraces him again, cradles his face against his chest, and waits for Jim’s tears to subside. He hasn’t even noted until now how he’s bawling like a baby. 

“It’s alright,” he coos. “It’s alright,” he repeats, cradling Jim’s body in his arms. The cop pulls at his bindings, desperate to return the embrace. He meant it when he said he wanted a family - so much. And every time he had the chance, it crumbled before his eyes. 

There’s only Oswald left now. He sobs wet hot tears into expensive tailoring, waiting for the pain to subside. Every bit of light is too much for his burning eyes, the streaks drying on his cheeks set his skin aflame, and the guilt is wrenching his heart out.

“She isn’t what you really wanted. Wasn’t good for you,” Oswald says then and Jim soaks up the consolation gratefully, greedily. “I’ll show you what you really want,” the Penguin mumbles and Jim agrees, is willing to see everything if the pain just subsides for a while.


	6. Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim isn't the only one affected by Oswald's mind-games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and for your comments! They make me work harder :)

“I always wondered,” Oswald starts. He’s way too casual, too relaxed for Jim not to be instantly terrified. The Penguin is at his worst when he’s seemingly lackadaisical, flippant. 

Jim already learned the hard way he’s most interested in the answer to his questions when playing it cool. The way he holds his head, how he seems to look at anything but his counterpart, studies the walls, the dripping tap - it all sets his teeth on edge. 

The blonde holds his breath, waits for the Penguin’s interrogation, hopes he can drag it out by telling him what he wants to hear. He has long since given up on fantasizing about Harvey breaking down the door and freeing him, knows nobody in this city knows enough about his fate, and even if, wouldn’t care enough to as much as lift a finger. 

He’s been given a much-needed break, has been allowed to rest for the past couple of days, floating in a blissful state of being half-conscious. For once, there have been no nightmares, no hallucinations, no excruciating pain splitting his head in half. 

Jim suspects he has been drugged, and he’s thankful for it. He thinks he remembers Oswald apologizing for that and him waving it off. He needs the sleep, needs it so badly since arriving in this city. 

“That was a bit much too quickly,” he informed him them, flushing a bright shade of pink that highlighted his freckles, like a little boy apologizing for eating raw dough. 

Jim thinks he smiled back, unable to resist the monster’s charm. It’s why everyone always underestimates the Penguin, this inherent cuteness. Jim saw through it, though. Back in the beginning at least, when he still had his wits about him. The polished exterior, the perfect manners, the innocence, they are just scenography, a delicately crafted play, made to lull all of Gotham in. And then he’d pull back the curtain and reveal his true face. 

“Strange would be very disappointed in me,” he would elaborate when Jim drifted off to sleep. “But you know me, Jim. I’m impatient. And I’ve waited for you so long already.” He chuckled, even fluffed his pillow, and made sure the blanket would cover his entire body. Jim had been grateful for that, too. 

It’s hard to shake this feeling now. Even when he’s lucid again, fighting once more against the conclusions Oswald wants him to draw. 

“Don’t look so scared, Jim,” he mocks. “I won’t play with you today.” He arches a curious eyebrow at the cop, walks over, pulls out a chair, and takes a seat. “I just thought, since you had the pleasure of interrogating me so often in our shared past, I should be given the same courtesy for once.” 

Jim wishes he could have contained the sigh of relief escaping him, he doesn’t want to add to the Penguin’s entertainment. 

Oswald chuckles, waves his finger in the air. “Ah, ah,” he tuts. “I didn’t say this is going to be an idle conversation, Jim.” He pauses. “Or well, it could be,” he says, tilting his head. “Given you answer me, for once,” he adds, looking eager and hopeful. “Our conversations have been rather one-sided in the past, haven’t they?” 

Jim considers the thinly-veiled threat, debates if he should indulge the mobster. It’s true, he was never keen on talking to Oswald, always too afraid of letting the man into his head, of following his twisted way of thinking. 

The thing is, Oswald’s, the Penguin’s, reasoning always made sense, Jim could never truly deny that. In his own right, he is right.

His machinations keep the citizens fed and safe, even though they are being cut off from the mainland. It had been his corrupt way of establishing a new way of organized crime that brought the city stability, it had been his mayoral reign that brought Gotham an extended time of peace. 

He is right. On the surface. 

Nobody talks about at which costs the Penguin’s offers come, though. It’s always a quid pro quo with him. He doesn’t leave the Gothamites alone out of the goodness of his heart. Today, he might be content with them worshipping him, tomorrow, he’ll ask for a bit more. And then some. 

Oswald’s benevolence never comes cheap. 

And once they’re unable to pay, the Penguin will crush them remorselessly. 

Jim always saw that, fought him, even and especially when everyone around him begged him to just team up with the mobster, to just let it slide, to see the bigger picture. 

That was always the problem, though. He saw the bigger picture, saw how allowing Oswald to reign freely would end in pain for the ones unlucky enough to get on his bad side. That’s why he used him, played him, without much remorse on his part either. 

Would Jim have been able to guide him if he had been better? Convince him of rethinking his actions? Would a true friendship have made a difference? 

Jim doesn’t know. He knows he shied away from the gangster in the past, didn’t want to come too close to his darkness, least it changed him as well. 

But it’s too late for such thoughts, isn’t it? 

“What do you want to know?” Jim asks, at last, rolling his shoulders defiantly. Oswald looks so pleased the cop could vomit. 

The mobster takes his time again, allows for the silence to stretch between them. Maybe he’s lost in his own fantasy of them being old friends sharing time together. 

“You never told me why you want specifically me,” Jim states, taking his chances. 

Oswald looks up, momentarily unable to mask his surprise. “I thought I did,” he says then haughtily. 

Jim shakes his head. “You said you wanted  _ someone _ . Why it must be me, I don’t know. Because I’m your type? Blonde?” He scoffs. “Surely, you must have underlings tripping over themselves to get your attention, minions, ready to worship the ground you’re walking on. So why the effort of putting me through the wringer?” Jim wonders. 

Oswald’s face falls before he closes off. “As if I don’t see through that charade,” he hisses. “What I want is something real, genuine.” Sucking in a deep breath, he regains his composure. “This is not about me, not right now at least,” he adds, looking sharply at the detective. 

“But it is,” Jim urges. “You want me, particularly me, to love you. You’re ready to dissect my mind, as you put it. Should you succeed, how is that genuine affection on my part?” 

The slap echoes through the tiny room before Jim has a chance to react, letting him instantly know he touched a sore spot. 

It’s not much of a victory, though, leaves him biting back tears, and rubbing his reddened face. 

“You want something genuine?” the mobster hisses through gritted teeth as he grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking him from the tiny bed. 

“Follow me,” he orders harshly, pulling the weakened man to the floor. 

Jim miscalculated, he realizes, thought he’d be better off at this point. In truth, he lacks the strength to put up a fight entirely. He’s on his knees, staring up at a snarling beast, all tenderness gone from the kingpin’s face. 

Jim yelps in pain, can’t mask his immediate fear as he stares up at the Penguin, the apology already rolling from his tongue. He’s being pushed forward then, mercilessly, right into the arms of a henchman waiting outside the door. Sweaty hands reach for his arms, pull him forward. 

“Please,” he stutters out, fear overtaking his power to think. He’s not begging, not really, but not far from it. 

He ends up on all fours in the main hall. 

Oswald snaps his fingers, gestures for a nameless peasant to draw back the curtains, allowing Jim a magnificent view over the city. 

“This! This is something genuine,” he bursts out, pointing at the crumbling skyline. 

Where once Gotham stood tall and proud, there’s now cinder and ashes. An endless landscape of grey, bleak, and unforgiving - just like the yellow hills of the desert. “This is what  _ you _ brought upon my beloved home,” he screeches. “They were dying, Jim!” he accuses, and the cop can’t argue with that, knows it in his heart, it’s true, that he failed his home,  _ her _ , everyone who counts. 

Oswald turns his back on him, stares at the ruins of the city they would both sacrifice their lives for, head and hands pressed against the cool glass. Jim watches his shoulders rising and falling rapidly, and then the anger just drains. 

He turns around, sighs at Jim’s pathetic sight, and motions for his minions to leave them alone. 

Crouching down beside him, Oswald looks Jim in the eye. He’s trembling when he speaks. 

“You were supposed to be different,” he chokes out, tears clouding his vision. “When you arrived in Gotham, you brought us all hope - even me. Hope, that things could be different, that finally, there could be someone to look up to.” He clutches his hand so tightly his knuckles turn white. “You  _ saved _ my life, Jim. You spared even the unworthiest among us,” he confesses between sobs. 

“Tell me,” he presses. “When did that change? When did you become like the rest of us? When did you become a hypocrite? When was the first time you used your fists instead of words during an interrogation? Hm?” He releases him then, almost disgusted. 

Panting heavily, Jim closes his eyes, attempting to block out the truth behind those words. It’s correct, all of it. But Jim tried, didn’t he? Doesn’t that count for anything? 

He stares at a building burning in the distance, looks back at Oswald, tears streaming down his pale face, smudging the mascara. 

Jim reaches out, wipes the black streaks from his face. 

“You know when,” he whispers. 

Of course, he knows. Knows it had been him who gave his everything to seduce Jim to go out of his ways, to become a little bit more like everyone else in this rotten city. 

Oswald leans into the touch, nuzzles into the palm of Jim’s hand. “But I was supposed to be your only exception,” he mumbles brokenly. 


	7. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim offers Oswald something in exchange for his mercy.

Jim can feel his sanity dissipating. Everything is on fire. Molten sand turns into glass, turns into sand, once more. She, Gotham, is crumbling before his eyes, shattering like glass. Glass used to be sand. He feels it in the back of his mouth, that taste of saffron and oranges. 

He’s happy.

Jim laughs. Everything is yellow and red, burning down before his eyes, the entire skyline is made of glass as his father drives him through the night. 

He’s without a care in the world. 

Long, elegant fingers around the steering wheel, the flash of a blade, a purple ring on his little finger.

He has never been safer. 

He’ll never be safe again. 

_ Why do you want to be a hero?  _

Jim knows the voice but he can’t place it. 

His father taught him to be a good man, to put everyone else before him. When he’s gone, his mother will kneel down before him, ask him to be the man his father used to be, just better. 

It’s what he was always supposed to be:  _ better _ .

His father had been incorruptible, honest, just.  _ He  _ would have never made a deal with the mob, would have never allowed for this city to taint him - unlike his son. 

His son had been weak, fallible,  _ corrupt _ . When the situation called for it, he’d team up with the mob and forget where he came from. 

The shame is burning through him like the remnants of this city. 

Jim blinks, and the light is gone. What is left is the silvery glow of a blade in pale moonlight. The Don picks it up, cuts deep into his own palm until the blood oozes out, takes his father’s outstretched hand, does the same on him, and presses their hands together. 

The mobster smirks. He’s Don Falcone, Jim knows, but he’s wearing the Penguin’s face. 

_ I offered you my hand so often.  _ He sounds solemn and Jim nods in return. 

He always wanted to be like his father. He should just have taken that darn hand. 

_ Tell me, did this city get better?  _ The voice becomes more urgent, pressing. 

Jim can only shake his head as they drive past the police station. He takes a look at the ground, presses his fingers into his ears to block out the screams. People are starving in the streets, and it was his doing. 

“I never wanted this,” Jim manages, huge, terrified eyes trained on the Penguin, Oswald. 

“I know,” he replies, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

Everything Jim ever did lead to the bridges collapsing, to the city getting engulfed in chaos. 

“I just wanted to get rid of the corruption, to cut it out,” he tells him honestly. 

Oswald sighs. He understands. 

In any other city but Gotham, he might have succeeded. What he didn’t understand, though, was how the mob had been protecting her in its own rights. Jim could not have known that the citizens’ tribute to the gangsters kept a greater darkness, a more dangerous madness, at bay. 

He can see it now. None of this would have happened with a strong leader uniting them all against someone like Jerome, someone who only seeks chaos. 

Jim arrives in Gotham. It’s his first day, he’s full of hope, idealistic. He swears never to mistreat a suspect, calls anyone and everyone out all the time. He wants to be an example of the change he hopes to bring to the city. 

It doesn’t even take him 40 days to break his rules.

And he keeps tearing through this city, shaking up the old order, sowing destruction. 

He goes to Oswald, asks for help, once, twice, twenty times. Keeps telling himself this will be the last time, that after this, he’ll be good again, stick to the rules. It’s everything for the greater good. 

And he does save them, doesn’t he? It keeps getting better, doesn’t it? 

It doesn’t. 

In the beginning, he would fight psychopaths and dangerous murderers. In the end, he’s up against shadow-societies and genetically enhanced monsters. The women coming too close too him lose their minds, his baby-girl pays the ultimate price. 

_ This wouldn’t have happened with you at my side. _

There’s this whisper again. Yet it’s more than a slight buzz in his ear anymore. It’s a wild roar, a desperate scream, and Jim can’t unhear it any longer. 

It’s true, though. He had always been better with Oswald at his side, the city had been more stable, they had been  _ safe _ . 

And there had always been that goddamn attraction. This pull, this  _ need _ to get into Oswald’s hair again, to be close to him, ask for his advice, team up with him. He’d been under his skin from that day on the pier on. 

He could never merely leave him be, tried cutting ties with him more than once, and only ended up facing him once more. And when it all became too much, he looked for another gangster to replace the old one, went back to the Falcone’s, fought fire with fire, only to get burnt. 

Giving in would have been so much easier. 

Jim looks up at his father still driving the car. “I want to be like you when I grow up,” he tells him seconds before the crash. 

  
  


This time, the pain in Jim’s head is pure agony. He spasms in his seat, mouth opening in a silent scream. His entire body is on fire, there’s not a single cell in his body left that doesn’t beg for it all to fade, to just go away, for him to finally give in. 

Jim can’t do this anymore. 

He’d rip the flesh from his arms, thinking in his delusion that if he could only shed his skin, the pain would become tolerable again. 

Oswald studies him calmly while he flails helplessly. There’s not a single emotion on his face other than serene calm. 

“Mercy,” Jim thinks, or asks, or demands. He can’t tell.  _ Mercy, mercy, mercy.  _

He knows without a single doubt in his mind that he won’t endure another session. He’ll either turn insane or give in to anything Oswald demands. He’s the only salvation, the only absolution left, and if he demands his entire being, he’ll hand it other gladly - if the pain just stops. 

The other man purses his lips tightly, taps the apparatus with his cane. “Did you know it’s not this machine itself that’s causing the pain?” he asks conversationally. 

Jim couldn’t care less. 

“It’s the depth of the emotion,” he elaborates, arching a curious eyebrow at the miserable detective. “The deeper the guilt, the sadness, the regret - well, you get my point, the heavier the impact. I’ve learned more and more about this machinery every day now that Strange is here,” he carries on as he walks up to Jim. “Well, was,” he corrects himself with a sly smile that causes a shiver to run down Jim’s spine. 

He leans down, places his hands on Jim’s thighs, putting his entire weight on the exhausted man in the process. Pressing their heads together, he inhales deeply. “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs. “So sorry it had to come to this for you to see,” he mumbles, voice unsteady and hoarse. “If you had only accepted my generous offer when you had the chance…”

Oswald bites his inner cheek, takes a step back, and with his retreat, the distraction from the pain is gone, too. Jim prays his goons will untie him soon, take him back to his room, granting him some much-needed rest. 

Jim craves the warmth to return. 

It seems like the Penguin has other plans for him. “You’d think with Strange gone, I’d have found some peace, some sense of closure.” He inhales deeply, chews his lower lip as he struggles to draw breath. “Jim, it doesn’t help,” he confesses brokenly. “Shouldn’t I be better now?” he asks, shoulders slumping. 

The detective can’t answer, still too caught up in his own pain and thoughts. Oswald doesn’t pay him much thought though. 

“Edward is back,” he then informs Jim. To the cop, this comes out of nowhere, leaves him confused and unsure if or how to respond. It’s wrong, he thinks, with something akin to jealousy, that he’d put him through all this misery only to talk about his ex now. It’s maybe the worst, yet, not even being worth some acknowledgment when the Penguin has just gone through his memory. It’s so painful he doesn’t even note he confessed another murder, wouldn’t care if he did. 

“It hurts,” Jim finally blurts out, petulantly. 

That grabs the gangster’s attention, has him finally tending to the cop in his possession. He picks half-heartedly at the bindings, steadies Jim when he almost tips over, once the support is gone. 

“I thought I would have no need for you once he’s back,” he grumbles angrily as he helps Jim laying down on the cold ground. It’s worse down there, but the touch steadies him, keeps him tied to reality, even when he feels just a push could force him to trip over. 

He’d be lost in his own mind then, alone with his demons. 

The cop’s heart aches in his chest at the revelation. Could it be true? Or is this just Oswald telling him he’s no longer of use, about to get disposed of, like a broken toy he’s grown tired of? It’s not fair, not  _ now _ , not like this.

The emotion must have been visible, for Oswald hurries to elaborate. 

“We’re working well together, always have,” his voice breaks off as he looks at anything but at Jim. “For now,” he adds. Sitting down on the floor beside the blonde, he takes his hand, entwining their fingers. “I…” he pauses, draws up his shoulders. 

When he blushes, his freckles become visible under all that make-up he’s hiding his face under. Jim stares at his nose, starts counting. It’s such a soothingly simple task. 

“I want something that lasts,” he admits then, putting Jim’s hand in his lap. “Edward and I...we’re not meant for the long-run. We’ll work together, betray each other, and rewind,” he muses. Turning his gaze back at the man beside him, eyes glistening with unshed tears, he asks, “don’t I deserve that? Don’t I deserve a man I could have introduced to my mother?”

And something in the cop breaks. 

“Your mother is dead,” Jim snaps back. It’s once more not his smartest move, yet it seems he’s entirely unable to be even slightly diplomatic around the kingpin. The answer is drawn from pain, hurt pride, resentment, and humiliation. 

Oswald’s face hardens. If Jim wasn’t so exhausted, he would have felt the familiar spark of fear. 

“She is,” he deadpans. 

And because his mother has always been a sore spot, Jim can’t help but needle the mobster. “She would have been proud,” he spits sarcastically, even if each word hurts so much his vision becomes blurry. “For her son to maim and torture.” 

Oswald gasps, appalled, but doesn’t contradict, just keeps worrying his lower lip. 

“She did never know, did she?” he pants. Oswald squeezes his hand in return. 

“No,” he finally admits. “I never told her who I really was. And I think she chose to ignore it.” Pursing his lips, the gangster glowers at the man in his possession. 

“You could stop that you know,” Jim suggests, gathering his last remnants of hope. “Be the man she saw in you. The man I sometimes saw in you, too.” 

That last sentence catches the Penguin’s attention, has him turning his head in silent wonder. He sways, opens his mouth. Oswald mulls the words over in his head, he must know though, what Jim subconsciously thinks of him, how he struggles himself. 

“That man died with her,” he says, at last, shattering Jim’s tiny bit of optimism. 

Closing his eyes, the detective exhales. “If that is true, my friendship wouldn’t have made a difference either.” 

“Perhaps,” Oswald shrugs. “Perhaps not.” 

Jim notes his hands are trembling. 

“I won’t make it through another round,” he tells him at last, lacing his fingers with Oswald’s tightly. 

“I know.” His voice is so soft, barely a whisper. 

Jim struggles to get the next words out, finally admitting to his failure. “I’m terrified,” he tells him between the tears. “I have made mistakes. I have wronged you,” he admits, hoping Oswald will understand that he means it, that, if given the chance, he would start over, do things differently. Maybe. 

“But  _ please _ don’t erase who I am,” he begs. Rolling over despite the pain, he faces Oswald. He’s already on the ground, struggles to get up so he can kneel. He’s at his breaking point, will grovel now, if Oswald insists. 

He gently holds him down. 

“t doesn’t hurt once it’s done,” he informs Jim. And that is even more terrifying, the prospect of bliss once he isn’t who he used to be. 

He almost tried committing suicide on several occasions, prayed for a bullet to crack his skull open, to tear his lungs out. Jim would embrace death gladly if it came to him now. But this? Turning into something entirely else? It’s worse than death, fills him with a dread he hasn’t got words for. 

“Why did you love me though?” he needs to know. What caused Oswald to love him so much it turned into such fierce hatred he must wipe it out? 

Jim doesn’t note when the other man starts weeping beside him. But now he hears the desperate, choked hiccups. 

“I don’t know,” he sobs. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he keeps repeating over and over again. “Maybe I just saw what you could have been - and it was beautiful.”

The words hit Jim with the force of a thunderstorm, they are a revelation, and an explanation for his own confusing feelings, make so much sense after everything he’s been through. 

Despite everything, he can’t help but admit that Oswald had potential, still has. 

He makes it onto his knees, begs for real, this time. 

“Then sleep with me,” he pleads. 

“What?” shocked, the mobster scrambles to get up, but Jim holds onto his ankle, stops him from retreating. 

“Have sex with me,” he urges, clarifies. “If you want me so desperately, have me as long as I’m still me.”

Jim is almost certain his words will be rewarded with a kick, with Oswald’s retreat at best, more pain at worst, but he’s merely met with silence. 

He doesn’t dare to look up, stares at the shiny tip of a perfectly polished shoe. The reflection he finds there is horrifying, a hollowed, sunken face, huge, frenzied eyes. 

Jim doesn’t expect the pair of lips crashing against his at all, or the wet slide of a tongue. He opens his mouth willingly for Oswald, returns the embrace as if his life depended on it, mirrors the needy sounds with vigor, clings to him even as he passes out, praying he’ll never wake again. 


	8. Stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Oswald make one step forward and another one back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments! Please note that I added a dub-con warning.

Jim wakes in Oswald’s quarter. He knows the very moment he opens his eyes it must be his bedroom, his _bed_. It’s the decor that tells him everything he needs to know. Every piece is impersonal while grand, speaking of its owner’s megalomania, replaceable, and unaffordable at the same time. 

The detective wonders if the Penguin ever stayed at a place that was truly his, not merely occupied, conquered. Maybe the room he used to live in as a child, he muses.

He pulls the blanket over his head, tries to block out the world just a little bit longer, smells the food standing next to the bed. His stomach revolts. This could be the last day he’s truly himself and he wants to drag out the moment a bit longer. 

Jim imagined dying, imagined sleeping forever. He never would have thought his end would result in letting go of everything he believes in. Yes, he had been a hypocrite, had acted contrary to his principles, but he had _believed_. Had always fooled himself into thinking that all his lapses would be temporary, hasty mistakes made in the spur of the moment. And one fine day, he would have succeeded, would have made the changes he hoped for, would have achieved the happy ending he dreamed of - for himself and for Gotham - and there would be no need for weakness, not anymore. 

Oswald, the Penguin, is about to rip that piece from his soul, that naive conviction that the light is waiting at the end of the tunnel. But there’s no light once you’re driving through an endless night during a thunderstorm. 

But maybe it’s fair. He has betrayed the boy who came to Gotham all those years ago, willing to make all the difference, pure at heart, and now he’s paying the price. 

Jim turns, stares up at the ceiling, and wonders. How will it be? Losing his soul while still being alive? 

“Awake?” Oswald asks softly from across the room. He’s seated at a desk, filling out paperwork. 

The worst crimes always happen at a desk, Jim thinks. 

He grumbles an affirmative and sits up, scoots a hand through his hair. It’s surreal, the tenderness in the Penguin’s voice. He glances at the other man as he rubs his face, trying to steel himself for the next round. 

“Did you really want to be a good man?” Jim muses once he’s somewhat awake, catching the other off guard. He still can’t marry the concept of the Penguin torturing him and wanting him all the same in his head, despite understanding his lust for revenge. Because after everything he’s been through, he does get it. Yet not at all. 

Oswald draws his brows together in confusion. “After Arkham,” he elaborates. 

“Ah.” The gangster puts his papers down and tilts his head. 

“Because all I ever wanted to be was a cop,” Jim continues. “I wasn’t a very good cop,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Or man,” he adds as an afterthought. “I tried though,” he mutters. But he also believes his statemen, firmly. He can’t, won’t let Oswald have this part of his. 

“And I always respected that,” Oswald acknowledges with a small nod. “But it’s time you let go of that,” he says, leaning back in his chair, seemingly relaxed. Jim knows he’s anything but. Once more the detective wants to scream at him, tell him he’s ripping the part out of him he’s drawn to. For Jim can’t fathom what else it would be. 

Absentmindedly, he places the pen against his lips, starts chewing at the tip of the silver thing, lost in his own memories. 

“I achieved more progress for this city than all your foolish efforts,” he sighs when Jim remains silent, merely observes him on his throne. But what else is he supposed to do? Any attempt to escape would be futile anyway. 

“And still,” the detective can’t help but remark as he leans back against the pillows after a tense moment of silence, stretching his aching limbs. “You never told your mother who you truly were.”

Oswald fixes the detective with a pointed stare. “You are not allowed to talk about her.” 

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?” he presses instead, going once again for his last sore spot. It’s not like he’s got anything left to lose at this point. “You played this role for her as long as she lived, pretended to be a respectable member of the society. Then you got into Arkham, they changed you. You said it worked because of me,” Jim carries on. Toying with the hem of the blanket he stares at the fluffy hills of white covering his legs. 

“It wasn’t all a role!” he snaps back, voice just a little too high. 

Turning his head, Jim studies the mobster. “Are you that delusional that you fooled yourself into thinking you’re the hero of your own story?” he asks bemusedly. 

Pushing the chair back, Oswald stalks over, vibrating with barely contained rage. He’s quivering, fingers flexing around the cane. Jim thinks he’ll slap him again, prepares himself for the onslaught. 

It never comes. 

“Why do you have to do this?” Oswald demands to know. “Why do you always have to taint everything I do? Drag my achievements into the dirt? Soil them? Haven’t I kept all my promises? Fed this city? Reconnected it with the mainland?” 

He crawls atop Jim, straddles his lap. Pulling the detective forward, he effectively silences every answer he might want to give him. This time, he doesn't wait for another proof of consent, just _takes_.

“Remember, you agreed to this, _begged_ for it,” he breathes into his mouth before claiming him. Maybe he's trying to convince himself. Jim will never know.

The kiss is messy, sloppy, like everything the Penguin does. Jim briefly wonders if he knows how often he left behind evidence tying him to the crimes he committed. Evidence he could have used if he had really wanted to bring him down. 

He wants to say something but there’s too much saliva, too much teeth, too much of _everything_. 

Oswald bites down on his lips a little too hard, and Jim gasps. He embraces the gangster, closes his eyes, and pulling him down onto his chest, he coaxes him into something softer, kinder. 

Hands running up and down Oswald’s spine, he offers up his neck, moans shamelessly when a hot tongue swipes over the sensitive spot. It’s not difficult to just give in, to let allow for the mobster to undress him, isn’t ashamed of his body once it’s completely bare. 

Oswald sucks in a shuddering breath, stares down at him as if he was a revelation, counts each and every rib reverently with gentle fingers. It’s so different from their first encounter now that Jim is entirely pliant beneath his hands. He stops at the bruises, caressing them with utmost care. 

When Jim reaches for him in return, he pins his hands above his head. At the flicker of fear in the blonde’s eyes, he releases them.

“What have I done?” he whispers, almost desperately, and Jim almost hopes...

Despair never stopped the Penguin though, only spurred him on. 

Pushing Jim’s legs apart, he devours his mouth again, and from there on, they stay completely silent. 

It’s left unsaid that Jim allows for him to take anything he needs in change for a tiny flicker of hope, feeling guilty about enjoying the warmth, the touch, the care in the process. 

It’s a fantasy they harbored for a long time, now finally fulfilled. It’s wrong, though, will leave a bitter taste in both their mouths once they are done. For now, though, they writhe in unison, moan and gasp in pleasure. Jim turns willingly for the other man, spreads his legs wider to accommodate him. 

It hurts, if only fleetingly when Oswald ultimately pushes in, too roughly and too quickly. The other man stills above him, rubs his back soothingly, pulls him against his own chest. “I still love you,” he whispers into his ear as he starts thrusting, trying to be gentle and failing, even as he’s almost losing his mind. Maybe they both lost their minds a long time ago, Jim thinks when Oswald finally tips them over the edge. 

He doesn’t bother dressing once they are done, not when Oswald gets up to make himself respectable again, not when he returns to his work, not when he hears a knock at the door. Just keeps lying there, above the covers, eyes plastered firmly to the ceiling. 

One of the mobster’s underlings enters the room, delivers a message to his master. Jim doesn’t listen, too caught up in his own thoughts. He glances over, notes the lecherous smile on the other man’s face as he takes stock of his body. Jim feels nothing. 

“When you’re done playing with him, boss,” the man starts, and Jim recognizes whatever he says now, won’t end well for him. “Can we pass him around a bit?” 

The detective knows what is about to happen before the Penguin strikes. He could have stopped it, had he said anything. Instead, he merely observes the blow, watches the switchblade appear so swiftly it seems like Oswald procured it out of thin air, hears the man crying out in pain only once before hitting the floor, instantly dead. 

There’s blood splattered across Oswald’s pale face now and a disgusting sea of red tainting the marble floor. 

The Penguin orders another one of his disposable goons to clean up the mess. The body is gone so quickly it might as well have never even existed. Jim knows nobody else will ever dare to even think of touching him. It’s a strangely comforting thought. 

Jim crosses his arms behind his head, studies the Penguin wearily. “You wonder why I always question your actions,” he commences as the man wipes the blood from his face. “Acts like this,” he sighs. “Needless acts of violence.” 

Oswald narrows his eyes at him, shrugs. “And you claim to be any better?” 

The detective thinks about that statement for a while, chews his lips. It’s true, he knows. The violence is beating as happily in his veins as in Oswald’s. But still... 

“No,” the detective admits, at last, earning himself a triumphant grin. “But if I stopped trying, I’d be just like you.” He sighs. “We share the same goals so often,” he reasons, his words stopping the mobster from becoming enraged again. “The faults we share will bring this city to the brink of destruction again, though,” he concludes. Jim doesn’t dare to tell him they’ll likely be his downfall again - even without his intervention. 

“I can only remember your meddlings bringing the city to this point,” Oswald snaps back, and Jim thinks he’ll be back at his throat any second. “Despite,” he scoffs, “why didn’t you stop me?” 

“Why didn’t you stop yourself?” the detective asks back. “For me, this once, hm?” His voice is soft as he speaks. This time, he isn’t inquiring in order to provoke the Penguin, is genuinely interested in the answer. 

It doesn’t work. This time, Oswald’s hand indeed presses down on his throat, trying to silence him. “I bet you regret not shooting me when you had the chance,” he crows triumphantly and Jim shakes his head. The thought never even crossed his mind. 

It’s so sad, he thinks, how he doesn’t comprehend. And it breaks his heart a little. He could have gotten him killed so many times, could have sent him to jail on so many occasions. 

Instead, he always chose to strip him from his power or to remain passive. Like now. 

“Don’t you realize,” he wheezes out, fighting against the weight on his windpipe, “I have never been solely responsible for your failures? It was you who admitted to killing Galavan. Who stayed in Arkham. I could have arrested you before, after….” 

The pressure increases and Jim places his hand above Oswald’s, pleading with him to let go. 

“Then why didn’t you?” he growls and the man in his possession can already feel the bliss of unconsciousness pulling at him. 

And maybe it’s the lack of oxygen, but suddenly everything clicks into place, like the last piece of a puzzle. 

“Because I love you too,” Jim manages to confess with his last ounce of strength. 

The Penguin reels back as if Jim had burnt him, as shocked by the declaration as the detective he’s holding captive. 

It’s true, Jim realizes once the words are out. He has always been a bit more negligent with the mobster, a bit more willing to look the other way, a bit more inclined to play him. Pushed him as often away as he sought out his help. 

It wasn’t fair, to manipulate him the way he did, probably. But he did it anyway, sought his presence as much as he sought his. 

“Liar!” Oswald blurts out, shaking from head to toe. “If that is a trick,” he screeches. 

Jim merely shakes his head. This insane thing, this bond, it’s real. And maybe he should just leave it here, but James Gordon wouldn’t be James Gordon if he didn’t push his luck. 

“But that won’t stop me from bringing you down again,” he vows gravely.   
  



	9. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim breaks down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. This fic already had an ending but back on Tumblr, a lovely reader pointed out how it came a bit too sudden. And after debating with myself I came to the conclusion that that is absolutely correct! So I rewrote my previous chapter.  
> The next chapter will probably be the last one (or not, I love writing this story, I don't want to let go lol).  
> Anyway, sorry for the inconvenience!

Oswald doesn’t react the way Jim expects him to. He was prepared for rage, violence, not a moment of quiet consideration. The mobster smirks, almost sadly, before sitting down next to the former cop. 

“James?” he asks softly while reaching for his hand. Jim wants to jerk away from his touch but once he feels those long fingers wrapped around him, he goes limp. He thinks he should feel fear and desperation - he only feels numb and docile. Jim’s aware of his bravado being nothing more than a fleeting spark at this point. There’s not much fight left in this weakened body, or in his exhausted mind. His prior words, though spoken with vigor, lack conviction. Oswald probably knows, too. 

The Penguin can hardly hide the victorious little gleam in his eyes. It would be easy for him to overpower Jim, to hurt him for his rashness. 

“Naked and humiliated,” Oswald states, almost reverently, as he presses his other hand over Jim’s heart. His touch feels hot on his skin, and the detective wonders why it doesn’t hurt. “I have to admit, I admire you,” he whispers. “You’re barely hanging on, but there’s still so much anger in you.” Leaning in, he kisses Jim’s knuckles. 

The blonde stiffens, breath caught in his throat. 

“That is what you want, isn’t it?” he carries on. “To fight until your last breath, remain proud and strong even when you’re already down, broken, and bleeding.”

Jim grits his teeth, can’t contain the angry snarl about to escape his mouth. 

The mobster is unfazed though, only studies him with a mildly bemused expression. 

“Let me go!” he hisses when Oswald’s hold tightens. He’s so sick of their dance, yet he can’t seem to stop it. Not in the past, not now. Cause this is what they have been doing for years, isn’t it? Getting close while desperately trying to get away from each other. At least it is was Jim has been doing. 

The smaller man shakes his head solemnly, purses his lips. “And then what?” he asks back. “The moment you’d walk outta here, they’d put a bullet in your head,” he states, shuddering in disgust. “They made you responsible for the mess we’re in,” he reminds Jim, smiling compassionately. It sounds wrong though, as if he was mocking the cop. 

Jim finally pulls his hand free, only to regret it immediately. Without the distraction of Oswald’s touch, he can’t keep his fingers from trembling. He raises his hands, lets them fall back into his lap. “Then let them,” he whispers, barely audible. 

Closing his eyes, the Penguin stretches beside him languidly. “I should have known breaking  _ you  _ would be different,” he mutters. “It’s such a sweet task,” he adds, smiling innocently. Lazily, he covers his eyes with one arm, gets comfortable. The way he acts doesn’t indicate Jim only moments ago threatened to take him down. If there was truly some fight left in Gotham’s knight, he’d choke the life out of the gangster. Yet even now, he can’t. The thought doesn’t cross his mind even though it would be the most reasonable thing to do. If he’d murder his torturer, the worst that would happen would be his own death.

Instead, he mulls Oswald’s words over and over in his head, tries to decipher their meaning. Turning his head, he stares down at the Penguin’s unfazed form. He can barely get his words out as the panic slowly catches up with his brain. 

Everything up until know only served to stall for time. Once the mobster gets up, once he pulls him from the room and across the hallway, he’ll be chanceless, give in, become Oswald’s puppet, his zombie - of that he’s certain. 

“Why aren’t you granting me the mercy you gave this other man?” he blurts out. “One blow and it was all done,” he chokes out, thinking about the blood coating the floor only mere minutes ago. 

Oswald removes his arm from his eyes and sits up. Biting his lips, he reaches out. Cupping Jim’s face between his palms he asks, “How could you ever ask me to murder you? You of all people?” The Penguin blinks back tears as he speaks, his voice is so hoarse he can hardly get his words out. 

“But,” Jim protests, and at last, the long-awaited slap paints his cheeks red. 

“But how dare you comparing yourself to this worthless thug!” Oswald hollers, all but jumping from the bed. 

Frantically, he starts pacing the room, dragging his bad leg behind him, even pulling at his perfectly-styled hair - it’s something Jim has never seen him do before. 

Spinning on his heels, he attacks, pins Jim down once more with his entire weight, eyes glistening feverishly. It takes him almost no effort to overpower the other man. 

Taking a moment, he listens to the cop’s frantic heartbeat before he starts laughing. It’s a crazed sound, almost maniacal, animalistic. It subsides, eventually, until it’s nothing more but a slight sob. 

“I’d hate to put you through another round,” he finally confesses. “We’re close, so close,” he gushes. “If you’d only  _ see _ !” 

“See what?” Jim snaps back, trying fruitlessly to fend off the mobster restraining him. 

“What you really  _ want _ !” Oswald screams, clearly exasperated. “Of all the things I showed you, what did you learn? What did you see?”

Jim struggles in the gangster’s unyielding grasp, bucks against the weight holding him down, yet achieves nothing. He’s powerless beneath the murderer, unable to help himself. 

“Let me go!” Jim tries again. “Let me go. Let me go. Let me go.” He barely registers the moisture coating his face. 

“And then what?” Oswald challenges, not relaxing his grip. “Then what? My death? Your death? Leave Gotham and live a normal life with a family of your own? Two kids and picket-fence? What, James, what?” 

The cops stills, lets his head fall back against the pillows. Panting heavily, he stares into two orbs of green. Oswald looks as broken as he feels. 

“You want freedom,” he reminds him. “But what would you do with it?” he asks, emphasizing his point by patting Jim’s nose lightly. 

Jim snaps. 

It’s this tiny bit of hope that Oswald keeps wielding in front of his nose, like a carrot, that infuriates him, fills his heart with rage. “Kill you!” he spits. “Put a bullet in your head, put a bullet in anyone’s head who deserves it, who pushed this city to the brink of destruction, who destroyed the souls and hearts of people like Barbara, and Lee, and...” his voice breaks off as he hears himself speak it out loud, horrified by the realization how badly he wants it, to just let go, to choke the life out of everyone who keeps dragging this city down with them, who keeps maiming and killing the innocent and the guilty and everyone in between. Jim wants this to end, to start all over, to be who he used to be. 

Oswald, in turn, lets go of him. “And?” he inquires softly. 

Jim inhales through his nose, tries to get his heartbeat under control. He’s back under Tetch’s spell, is fighting against this urge to simply destroy the madness that has befallen everyone around him, to just run off with nothing but a loaded gun and his determination. 

He can’t let Oswald have this victory, can’t allow for him to set his inner demons free. He must not succeed where Tech failed. 

“But I won’t,” Jim finishes stubbornly. 

“But how else could you save this city?” the Penguin presses. Judging by the way he looks at Jim, he thinks Oswald knows how badly he just wants to give in. The blonde huffs out a laugh. Of course, he knows. He had been in his head. 

The pressure on his chest increases when he doesn’t answer. Jim opens and closes his mouth, tries gasping for air, but it’s to no avail. Everything hurts and he’s about to lose his sanity, the part that ultimately defines James Gordon. 

Leaning in, Oswald lovingly brushes a strand of sweat-sodden hair from his forehead. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to just let go?” he whispers. “To do what I’m doing? This man, this thug... didn’t I merely serve justice when killing him for suggesting he rape you?” 

Oswald’s shoulders sag and finally, he lets go off Jim. “You gave your all to make Gotham a better place, but where did it lead you? The moment you had your pathetic little victories, you would go and betray me, time and time and time again…”

“But you always knew that!” Jim interrupts frantically. “You always knew how I’d act, what I’d do!” he hollers. His head is swimming, hurting. They had this conversation before, hadn’t they? “You knew me,” Jim challenges, pressing his fist against his eye-sockets. The light is blinding once the pain is back, once everything starts throbbing anew. “You knew I’d try being good whenever I had the chance, to abide by the law.” His voice breaks off when the headache overtakes every rational thought.”

“Blaming the victim,” Oswald tzks. Pursing his lips, he agrees, though. “That’s right, I know you,” he admits bitterly. “That’s why I knew I could do  _ this _ ,” he confesses softly.

Jim’s head snaps up at those words. Belatedly, he realizes how in everything the mobster says and does since Jim arrived, there’s a clue hidden, a hint he can’t grasp. 

Extending his arms, Oswald gestures at both of them. “It took me a while to understand it. And when you shot me, I got so angry.” His voice cracks slightly. Leaning over, he grabs a fistful of the blond’s hair. Tilting Jim’s head back, he murmurs, “It took me a while to understand,” he grouses. “ I’m truly your exception, ain’t I? You’d never go for my blood, not really, would you?” he urges and Jim slumps again. 

“Why state the obvious?” he snaps back, tilting his chin defiantly, even when he’s shaking with fear. 

“Why do you want to stop me?” Oswald presses. 

He reaches for Jim, shakes him slightly, before climbing back into his lap as if he belonged there. Despite himself, Jim catches his slender waist, presses him close. One hand tangled in the criminal’s hair, he starts rocking him as if he was truly his lover. 

If this warmth, this touch right here will be the last display of affection he’ll ever receive, he’ll soak it up. Besides, it was true. He does love, or maybe did love, Oswald. His lenience with the gangster had always been controlled by his emotions, by a desire to rather see him free than bound. Or by utter madness. 

He is, after all, everything that is wrong with this city. He’s greedy, selfish, violent, ruthless. But he’s also driven, full of determination, and powerful. Jim should have shot him as Harvey commanded him to do so. Yet, he can’t even hurt him now. It’s ridiculous. 

Jim looks up, takes in the slender frame, the pointed nose, those sharp eyes. Oswald is beautiful. And he tore Jim apart, violated him in ways he can’t even begin to comprehend. The cop doesn’t know why he needs to haul him into a brutal kiss, only registers what he’s doing when he tastes copper. It’s his time now, to draw blood from the monstrous man that clings to him, that seemingly fragile being. 

Jim thinks again how he should break his delicate neck now, end this misery, save himself and the city all the pain the Penguin is inevitably about to bring down upon them. 

“You’ll lose your empire again,” Jim threatens between kisses. Oswald merely shrugs, wraps his arms around him like a vice in response. “Comes and goes,” he states. “I always get it back, eventually.” 

Jim accepts the statement easily, it’s true. Maybe not even death could stop him, not in a city like this. Prison definitely couldn’t. His hold on the other man tightens. 

“What do you really want?” Oswald asks him again, and Jim stills, stops working on the buttons separating him from the warmth and touch he craves in his wrecked state of mind. He wants him gone from power so much, and all the others like him. And he just wants  _ him _ , too.

“I should kill you,” he pants, even as he slides the belt from his waist. Oswald nods in agreement. 

Oswald chuckles in response. “The fire,” he states, biting his lip flirtatiously. Oswald hooks his arms around Jim’s waist, pulling him easily with him. “You truly can’t stop poking the bear, can you?” he asks appreciatively. 

Belatedly, Jim realizes how he’s being maneuvered towards the hallway again. 

“You should put something on,” the Penguin notes, winking seductively when Jim finally realizes that he’s still naked. The cop blushes. 

“There’s really nothing to be ashamed about,” Oswald laughs as he traces the blonde's perfectly defined abs. “I’d just rather keep you to myself,” he adds, tilting his head. 

Leaning back against the door, he offers his neck for Jim to press a kiss against his jugular. “It’s such a shame,” he sighs. “Shame, shame, shame,” he mumbles while running his fingers through Jim’s hair. In his insanity, the cop thinks to indulge Oswad’s desires might save him after all, tries forgetting what is at stake. 

Oswald smiles affectionately at him. “How come I can have you but will never be able to keep you?”

Pulling back, the cop looks down at the other man. “Is this one of Edward’s riddles?” he wonders out loud before his brain catches up with him again and the fear slams back into his body with the force of a freight train. 

“But I do love you,” Jim tries to bargain. 

“I know,” Oswald replies as he wraps his arms around Jim once more. “But we both know that would never be enough, don’t we?” Drawing patterns into his skin, Oswald pulls him against the door. “What is that worth if we can never be together?” he asks when Jim starts mutely crying against his shoulder. 

His legs give out beneath him. Bonelessly, he slides down to the floor until he’s at the Penguin’s feet. All Jim can focus on is a pair of shiny shoes. Reaching for Oswald’s ankles, he starts sobbing without restraint. “Please don’t,” he begs, knowing full well how futile it is. 

“I can’t turn back now,” Oswald replies, almost apologetically. “Just once more,” he consoles, patting Jim’s head. “And the pain will stop and you’ll have everything you could have ever wished for,” he vows. 

This time, Jim follows him down the hallway without kicking and screaming. 


	10. Be Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim finally tells Oswald what he really wants. It's quite simple, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support and your lovely comments!

Jim doesn’t struggle. Not when Oswald forces him into the chair, not when he fastens his bindings, not when he pushes the helmet onto his head. His breathing is ragged, uneven. He desperately gulps for air, tries getting some oxygen into his lungs, doesn’t even notice how he’s hyperventilating. 

“Please,” he stutters once he gets at least his tongue to cooperate. “Please,” he repeats weakly. “You don’t have to do this.” Using this hackneyed phrase is pathetic, Jim knows. He knows it’s useless, yet he can’t stop pleading with the gangster. He has no dignity left to lose, there is no self-respect left in him. The only thing Jim knows, is how deeply, truly terrified he is. 

“Mercy,” he tries again, reaching out for the other man as good as he can with his bound wrists. 

To his utter surprise, Oswald takes his hand in return, squeezes his fingers gently. Their eyes lock, at last, and Jim sees his own pain mirrored perfectly in his torturer’s face. 

Oswald is fighting back his own tears, tries to keep his expressions in check, but failing miserably. 

“Why?” Jim chokes out for what feels like the hundredth time. He presses back against those pale fingers offered to him, clings to them as if they were a lifeline. 

The gangster falls silent except for his own heavy breathing. He struggles to find the right words, opens and closes his mouth silently as he hooks his arms around Jim’s neck. 

“I’ve told you,” he whispers against Jim’s temple, nuzzling his hair affectionately. 

“But I don’t understand,” the bound man replies, afraid to move in the Penguin’s embrace, lest he’d start the devilish machinery. 

“My Jim,” he sighs in response, caressing the blonde’s face lovingly. “I told you, I want to keep you, give you everything you want…” Oswald’s voice breaks off and Jim dares to lean into his touch. 

“If I’d let you go now, you’d never return,” he confesses. His hand caresses Jim’s cheeks, his neck, follows the line of his nose. “You’re so beautiful it hurts,” he murmurs as his thumb swipes across Jim’s lips. “Always wanted you,” he states. “Right from the very first moment I saw you. Wanted you more than anything I’ve ever seen before.” His lips tremble as he speaks. 

Kneeling down beside him, Oswald stares directly into Jim’s blue eyes. The blonde chases after him, body straining against his bindings when the murderer lets go. 

“I can’t let you go now that I finally have you,” Oswald sobs. Wiping his eyes, the mobster merely stares into the distance, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. “I will admit,” he starts, “when they brought you to me, I solely wanted to execute my revenge. I wanted to get back at you for my leg, for leaving me to rot in Arkham, for every time you sought my help only to abandon me the second I gave you what you wanted.” 

Oswald leans back against Jim’s leg, squeezes his calf gently. “But then I’ve been in your head.” He looks up, checks whether the man is still listening. Jim has never paid more attention to anything in his entire life. 

“And then I understood,” he sighs. “I saw your pain, your losses, your desires. All your thoughts revolve around your beautiful women, your lost child, your father, your failures.” Shaking his head, he presses a chaste kiss against his lover’s leg. “And I knew, if I could give you what you have been searching for all your life, you’d be mine. Truly.” He underlines his point by digging his nails into Jim’s flesh. It should be painful but, in fact, helps Jim to stay grounded. 

Outwardly, Oswald looks completely calm, composed, yet Jim sees the feverish glint in his eye and shudders. His captor is completely insane. 

Swallowing heavily, Jim clears his throat. Heart hammering frantically in his chest, he chooses his next words, hopes against hope he’ll find the right ones. “You mean a family?” he tries tentatively. Jim feels as if he’s about to pass out. 

The mobster blinks in surprise and makes a disgruntled noise in response. “How can a man as smart as you be sometimes so blind?” he scoffs. 

Slowly, Oswald gets up. Placing his weight onto Jim’s tighs, he leans into the bound man’s personal space. “This characteristic of yours,” he starts, voice low and threatening, “it makes me want to hurt you, so so bad.” 

Jim’s throat feels suddenly very dry. 

“On the other hand,” Oswald continues lightly, switching his expressions so swiftly it gives Jim whiplash, “it’s endearing how stubbornly you refuse to accept the reality around you.” He chuckles, clearly bemused. “My mother had this talent too,” he laughs. “Always saw what she wanted to see.” 

Taking a step back, the gangster assesses his possession, nods to himself, and smiles. “If I could,” he tells Jim, “I’d never hurt you again.” 

“Then don’t,” Jim whispers. “Please don’t.” He feels hot tears welling up again. Something inside him urges him to stay strong, tells him how humiliating it is to appear so weak in front of this man, but Jim can’t find the strength in him to keep up the pretense. 

“Jim,” Oswald starts softly, suddenly sincere again. He caresses his face, the touch light as a feather. “I never lied to you,” he tells Jim. “It won’t hurt, my darling, not when you finally come to the right conclusions,” Oswald vows solemnly.

The captured cop barely dares to ask. “What conclusions?” 

Oswald bites his lip and there’s a flash in his eyes. Jim is almost certain he’ll hit him again. Instead, he makes himself comfortable in the blonde’s lap, wraps him up in his arms. 

The gentle gesture is enough for his tears to start flowing again. At the same time, Jim enjoys the comfort, allows himself the illusion of safety. Inhaling deeply, he lets Oswald’s decadent perfume fill his nostrils and block out the grim reality of his situation. Pale, white fingers are tangled in his hair, massaging his scalp wherever it isn’t covered with the cold metal. 

Jim knows Oswald only has to move his hand slightly to the side, push down on one of the buttons on the gruesome thing and the agony will start again. 

“Was that really what you wanted?” he urges. “A family? A beautiful wife and a child to care for?” Inhaling deeply, he leans his head against Jim’s. 

“I,” the detective’s voice breaks off. Wrecking his head, he remembers all the sessions Oswald forced him to endure, all the memories he dissected. It’s his latest memory, the one he tried keeping hidden best, that jumps back to his mind. His father always knew what to do and say. He never recklessly reject an outstretched hand. 

“I wanted to be someone my father could be proud of,” he admits, at last, going for an honest answer but not something the gangster might want to hear. 

The man in his lap hums, obviously pleased. The buzz seems to reverberate through Jim’s entire body. It feels warm, pleasant. 

“But it turned out, your father wasn’t someone  _ you _ could be especially proud of,” Oswald quips. His hold tightens. “I saw him. In your head, with Falcone.” 

Jim nods. “It should have torn me apart when I found out,” he tells the other man. Closing his eyes, Jim remembers the moment. Momentarily, he feels a wave of disappointment wash over him. All his life, he tried living up to the ideal that had been his father, a mobster’s best friend. The sensation vanishes just as quickly, gives way to calm acceptance. 

“But instead you saw us,” Oswald finishes. “What we could be.” 

“Yes,” Jim breathes into the flesh against his lips. And it is true. That had been his first real thought: if a man like his father had managed a balance between his ideals and reality, how did he so utterly fail time and time again? 

“But you couldn’t,” Oswald finishes for him. “Cause it didn’t fit into this picture you created for yourself when arriving in Gotham all those years ago.”

Mutely, the blonde shakes his head. Pulling back, he seeks Oswald’s face. “I loved them,” he says. “Lee and Barbara. I really did. For a while.” 

Oswald hums again in agreement and this time, the buzz seems to be getting louder. It tingles, feels just too good to be true, like a blanket slowly getting pulled over his entire body. 

“I really wanted to be a good man,” he continues. “A good husband, a good father,” Jim’s voice trails off. 

The buzz is so loud Jim can barely hear his own words. It doesn’t matter if he hears them, though. They are solely for Oswald. The man’s humming echoes through his bones. 

“A good man has a wife, a kid,” he elaborates faintly. Closing his eyes, he gives himself over to the buzz. It’s like the world’s loudest lullaby. 

“What is it that you really want, James?” Oswald’s voice sounds so very far away, even though Jim knows the man is practically wrapped around him, can still feel his weight in his arms. 

“I just wanted to be  _ good _ ,” he says at last, and all of a sudden, the buzzing stops. 


	11. Becoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim finally sees who he belongs to and what he needs to become.

Jim feels warm, safe,  _ loved _ . He’s absolutely grounded in Oswald’s arms. There’s no one else like him, no one who understands him the way he does. 

Jim cries, he can’t stop the sobs, the hiccups rocking through both their bodies. Oswald won’t judge, won’t hold this weakness against him. Mutely, he runs his fingers through Jim’s hair. Head resting against his shoulder, he let’s the blonde forget the pain the bindings are causing him.

“What makes a good man?” he inquires softly as his hands find their way to Jim’s shackles, slowly loosening them one by one. 

Closing his eyes, the cop takes a deep breath. Suddenly, it’s so very easy to confess, to tell the other man everything he ever wanted to be and everything he thought he should be. 

“When I came to Gotham all those years ago,” he sighs, “I thought it meant being someone who protects people, a cop, a husband, a father.” Jim shrugs. It feels like a lifetime ago since he had been this naive, young man. “It is what good people do,” he adds as he wraps his shaky arms around the gangster. Oswald practically melts into the embrace, tightens his own hold on him. Only then Jim notes he’s trembling, too. 

“I’m freezing,” he utters, trying to get the criminal as close as possible. In response, Oswald shifts in his lap, practically wrapping his entire body around him to keep him warm. Jim thinks they are so close he can hear the other man’s heartbeat.  _ Tum badabum tum badabum tum.  _ It’s a steadfast beat, not erratic like his own. 

Pulling slightly back, Oswald looks him in the eye, expression open and vulnerable. “And what do you think now?” he asks. 

Averting his eyes, Jim looks down, stares at his bare feet, the dark floor beneath them. 

Talking, thinking, it all hurts. In truth, Jim is tired. All he wants to do is drop his head back and sleep, safe in the arms of a monster. “I thought the world was simple,” he murmurs. “Good and bad, nice and evil. And then, one day, it wasn’t anymore. I killed a man and it was good and my whole life turned upsidedown,” Jim confesses as he rests against the beast’s chest. 

Oswald hums in agreement. 

“Do you remember the day we first met?” the exhausted man asks, fighting the tempting pull of sleep. The buzz is back in his ears, only softly first. But then, it’s pulling him under, making him weak. Jim is so tired of fighting, of making sense of everything, analyzing every little thing. So tired of remembering why he can’t simply give in. 

The man in his lap huffs out a laugh. “As if I could ever forget,” he replies, voice so warm and genuine Jim can practically hear the love dripping into his ears. 

“You were swinging a bat,” he murmurs. “This scrawny, tiny, little bird,” Jim carries on even when it feels as if giant waves were crashing against his skull. “And I thought, out of this group of thugs and criminals, I should take  _ you _ with me, arrest you and never let you walk away again.” 

Oswald lightly squeezes Jim’s arm. Even without looking, he knows he’s smiling. “I thought the same thing,” the Penguin confesses. 

“It was the first time I compromised,” Jim carries on. Another shudder rocks through his body. “Even though I knew you were enjoying this, the pain and fear you caused. And people like you,” he concludes, “I swore I’d never compromise. Swore to take them down.” 

Hot breath tickles against Jim’s cheek when the Penguin nods. 

“So I was your first exception?” he asks breathlessly, voice full of adoration. 

“My only,” Jim admits without hesitation. His ears are tingling and he’s fighting sleep with all his might. “And it got worse,” he mumbles. 

“I want to hunt them down, those people like you,” Jim tells the Penguin. “I want to find them, one by one, all of those who find pleasure in the pain of others.”

Instead of shying away from Jim, Oswald merely accepts the statement. “That’s what you needed the badge for,” he states. “When all you indeed ever needed was your morals.” 

Oh so gently, Oswald forces Jim’s head back until he has no choice but to look up at him. “All you ever wanted to be was a  _ hero _ ,” he declares. 

Jim feels like the world slows down when he hears it spoken out loud. His eyes zero in on the kingpin’s mouth as he mulls the word over and over in his head.  _ Hero hero hero. _

All he ever wanted to be was good: to save people, protect them. There are heroes and villains, and the innocents in Jim’s head. Back when he started, when he put on his uniform, it was everything he wanted. Everything had been so easy. All he had to do was find corruption and brutality, expose it, and lock the bad guys away. 

And then came Oswald. 

And just like him, he shook everything up. He fought tooth and nail to get to the top of the food chain, showing neither remorse nor mercy. But just like him, he needed order, provided stability and protection. 

Jim’s ears are ringing again, it’s a siren’s call, this strange song in his head: A feeling as if a very simple answer is only a hairbreadth away to all his complicated questions. 

“I never lied to you, Jim,” Oswald murmurs. “I meant it when I told you I saw right away what you could be. It was beautiful,” he breathes as a single tear rolls down Jim’s cheek. 

“I will hunt them all,” the blonde chokes out. “Jeremiah, Barbara, Victor, even Ed,” he mumbles. “Everyone who ever hurt the innocent.”

Oswald hums again, perfectly in tune with the angelic music vibrating through Jim’s body. He whistles along. Jim still sings the strange tune absent-mindedly when the Penguin smoothly slides from his lap, sings it still when he returns. It could have been seconds or hours, Jim doesn’t know what time is as long as he’s singing. 

It all becomes one: the shivering, the chanting. And all of a sudden, it almost feels good to freeze, to feel his muscles contracting painfully and relaxing again. The pain, of that he’s certain, is real. Of everything else, he’s not sure any longer. 

“I have something for you,” the spider-like man announces once he’s back. 

The warmth is bliss. 

Gracefully, Oswald wraps a long coat around Jim’s shoulders, enshrouds him in luxurious, extravagant garment, blocking out the cold all and for once. 

“I never expected anything less from you,” he whispers then. “As long as I stay your exception.” Oswald’s posture is cocky, his eyebrow raised expectantly, yet the way he looks at Jim betrays him. Sometimes the former cop wonders how he made it that far. He’s such a bad liar when his emotions come into play. 

It’s hard to talk when all Jim wants to do is to float in tune with the music, to sing along, and forget the pain. But then Jim remembers how the music came into his ears, who must have put it there. “You said this wasn’t a country for heroes,” he muses. 

Oswald merely shrugs again. “I can be your exception as you can be mine.” 

Jim stops. Leaning forward, he pulls the coat tightly around his shoulders, reminds himself of this feeling of being protected. The song in his head becomes louder until it’s almost a shrieking crescendo, a force of nature forcing him down on his knees. 

For a split second, Jim thinks this is wrong. All of his conclusions are wrong. 

But then another wave hits him and the thought is being washed away. 

“Do you see it now?” Oswald asks, voice still perfectly audible over the storm in Jim’s head. “What you have to become? What you have always been?

The man crouching on the floor wants to answer but the pain is almost unbearable, the music is splitting his head in half, devouring his entire being.

“It hurts,” he chokes out. 

“It won’t hurt once it’s done,” Oswald replies casually, and then his hand is back on Jim, caressing his face, keeping him focused. “I will give you everything you want, everything you need to be who you are,” he urges. “The man who came here on a grey day, the one who saw all good and all evil with clear eyes.” 

Jim can only moan in response. 

“Gotham’s wonderful hero, her White Knight, the memory of the innocent boy,” Oswald pleads with feverish eyes as cradles Jim in his arms. 

There must be something Jim is missing, a flaw in his reasoning, yet everything the Penguin says and does makes perfect sense. Jim can see it now, how all the pain he put him through, all the things he showed him have been nothing but the truth. One day, he merely lost track, used his fists instead of words in an interrogation room, and became whoever he is now, this broken, weak man. Someone who desperately needs the pain to stop. 

Closing his eyes, Jim gives in, drowns in the waves until the howling fills him up. He’s floating in his pain, basking in it. Every fiber of his being is filled to the brink with this ache, this need. If only he could find the answer, maybe then it would stop, wouldn’t it?

“It doesn’t hurt once it’s done!” the Penguin screeches and Jim clings to the words. 

It was easy before, stopping the buzz, but it wasn’t the final answer to the question. 

And all of a sudden, it is clear. And oh so easy. If there was any strength left in Jim he’d laugh. Maybe he does, he can’t tell. Oswald always told him before, had told him hundreds of times. 

“I have to be me again” Jim pants, as he desperately readies himself for another onslaught. His fingernails dig into the concrete. 

Oswald nods mutely as he pulls Jim close. “My hero,” he mumbles and Jim wants to sob in relief. Finally, the pain subsides, stops almost as quickly as it has taken over. 

“Your hero,” Jim agrees. 


	12. Being A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim finally becomes a superhero and succumbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this and your lovely comments! I hope you'll enjoy the last chapter :).  
> P.S: please read the title of the last and first chapter together.

It turns out, Oswald has indeed never lied. Not to Jim that is. All he did was load an already existent gun and wait for it to go off. 

Jim Gordon walks the streets of Gotham once more now that he’s been set free, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He started off with Jeremia, the clown who set their beloved city on fire, and in turn, Jim sets him on fire, burns him to cinder until no magic pit will ever be able to bring this plague that the man was back to Gotham. 

It’s liberating, Jim thinks, extinguishing what has been tormenting them all without the usual guilt, without consequences, without any fallout, without any paperwork to follow. This time no fear-stricken jury will for him allow to walk free, no corrupt judge will twist the truth. 

To the world, Jim is gone, disappeared like an especially annoying mosquito that has finally flown into the light. 

Jim knows he isn’t missed, not by Gotham’s citizens who had been as quick to condemn him as to declare him their hero. He’s certainly not missed by the GCPD who had regarded him as a nuisance on good days, and as a threat on bad days. The only person mourning him is Harvey, yet even he can’t muster up the courage of asking too many, too uncomfortable questions. As loyal as Harvey was to him in life, he’s also interested in saving his own skin. Maybe he simply believes the Penguin. He isn’t dead after all - just  _ very _ different. 

With his face hidden and his body enshrouded in layers of protective gear, it’s easy to make his way around the city unnoticed, to stalk on his prey. Once more Gotham celebrates a hero when rumors arise about the horrible demise of the next rogue. And then another. 

Oswald had been honest. He never interferes in Jim’s quest. Whoever he deems worthy of his death, is free for the taking - ally to the Penguin or not. Maybe he doesn't care, with the Penguin, today's ally will always be tomorrow's enemy, anyway.

When the news reports another mobster being found on the shores of Gotham’s river, Oswald merely shrugs his shoulders as he tends to his knight’s wounds. Jim shudders when Oswald wraps the bandages around his bruised arms, utter devotion writ clear on his face, adoration leading his every action. 

Jim finally understands what unconditional love looks like. 

It’s beautiful. 

He has to silence the traitorous voices yelling at him how that isn’t the truth. In his head, he can’t marry the concept of the man kneeling before him with the one torturing him. But was it really torture? Hasn’t he freed him? 

Jim has to test Oswald, needs to see how far he can really take it. When Edward, the Riddler, forces his little games upon the citizens once more, Jim steps in, and makes sure there will be no more riddles to solve. 

He certainly notes the brief flash of pain on the other man’s face upon receiving the news. Yet before Jim’s jealousy can spike, the expression is gone. Oswald simply takes the bit of information as if receiving the weather report. 

When taking Jim to bed, he maybe fucks him just a bit harder, is a tad bit rougher than usual, but then Oswald has always liked a bit of dominance. 

“I know why you did it,” he whispers, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. 

Holding his breath, Jim waits for him to elaborate. “You feared I’d tire of you,” he declares smugly. “Exchange you for the Riddler.” Pulling Jim close, he presses a delicate kiss against his forehead. “My silly darling,” he tells him fondly, “I knew exactly I’d get my revenge once I’d let you be you.” He laughs softly at Jim’s confusion. Eyes shining brightly, he claims him again. “Don’t be afraid,” Oswald pants. “Now that you’re mine, I’ll never let you leave, never tire of you.” 

The next day, Jim walks into the night again, saves a young woman from getting mugged, and feels like he has never been more beneficial to the city he vowed to protect. If only he had seen earlier how far he needs to go, he might have been able to prevent so much more, to rectify so many wrongs. 

The robber bleeding out in the streets is not even nineteen years old. Jim feels a pang of guilt as he watches the light fade from his eyes. But he had a choice, didn’t he? He could have simply not robbed the poor woman. 

Jim tries not to think about how a city like Gotham, a city in which the rich bathe in golden bathtubs, and the poor starve to death, probably forced his hand. 

He merely turns around and runs away. Away from another corpse and away from his conscience. The next morning, the Gazette will celebrate an anonymous hero. 

They all fall by Jim’s hands: the rogues, the little thugs, the worn-down mobsters, the corrupt cops. 

Jim sees Harvey one day. Knows full well he isn’t better than the rest, not when he can afford again his apartment in the inner-city. He’s looking over his shoulder, clearly nervous now with a self-proclaimed hero, a vigilante, running wild. Jim knows he’s being a hypocrite here, is making a small exception, but he hasn’t any evidence to back his suspicions up, isn’t digging for it either, and of course, there’s another issue. 

He remembers Harvey. It’s not a real memory, more like a vision from another life. True, the man held him back, was in his way of being who he truly was supposed to be, but looking at him, there’s a  _ something _ stirring in his chest, an ache he can’t place. He swallows and tries pushing the feeling back down. 

He wants to run over to him, tell him how  _ he  _ will never have to fear him. He doesn’t. If his colleagues knew he was collaborating with the crusader, he’d truly have a reason to grow a second pair of eyes on his back. 

Jim is desperate. Two months have passed since he first set out to be the hero Oswald regards him to be and the city isn’t better off. 

True, the bridges have been rebuilt, Gotham is once more connected with the mainland, nobody’s starving to death, but that would have happened anyway. 

Jim is a hero. The media are praising the unknown warrior who made it his mission to keep the streets safe for the citizens to walk. Even Bruce Wayne gives a comment on his efforts, points out with a man like the  _ Ghost _ , a name he had been given for his ability to flee the scenes of his crimes so quickly, his parents might still be alive. He condemns him murdering people, though. 

“You’re not committing crimes, James,” Oswald scoffs when the blonde buries his head in his hands. “You’re doing what should have been done ages ago.” And then he kisses the sorrow right off his face, pulls him to bed, and takes him apart. Jim listens to him whispering sweet nothings in his ear, basks in the feeling of finally being at home. 

Now, he has someone to come home to. And whatever Jim does on his crusade, Oswald won’t judge any of it, will encourage him while looking up at him with big, shining eyes. To Oswald, Jim became the hero he always saw in him, and to Jim, Oswald turned into his adoring sweetheart, the maiden waiting at the shores for him to come home.

Of course, it’s a charade, a play for both their entertainment. Oswald is no blushing virgin, and Jim is no white knight. But together, they can pretend. 

The voices in Jim’s head keep getting louder each day. Yet another criminal ends up with a bullet between their eyes and the blood splatters Jim’s chest, coats his face, his lips. 

He wipes it off, but he can still taste  _ something _ on the tip of his tongue. The taste is not how it’s supposed to be, lacking the familiarity of salt and copper. It’s wrong in a way Jim can’t tell, nothing like blood should taste like. 

Staring down at the corpse, he wonders what it changes. Yesterday, he killed another one, and tomorrow he’ll probably kill one more, yet each time he takes a criminal off the streets, another man or woman takes their place as if his actions meant nothing. 

Jim wipes his face once more, smacks his tongue against his teeth, but the taste won’t fade. He rolls the body over, until it’s facing the pavement, not judging him with its lifeless eyes. 

He kneels down, digs his fingers into the dirt. Jim needs to feel again. As his knuckles turn white, his fingers turn bloody. He wishes he could rip out the entire pavement. 

Whatever he is doing, it’s useless. And then he remembers. The real reason he wanted to become a cop, to look for evidence, to connect the dots, make arrests, and not simply shoot a murderer on sight: he wanted a real change. 

Now, he’s merely taking pawns off a board while the board itself stays the same. He can remove token after token, yet if there’s an infinite supply of them, what does it matter? As a hero, a vigilante, he’s just another wild card, the game stays inevitably the same. 

Yet what he always wanted to do, was changing the rules of the game, or rip away the entire board. 

The cry thorn from his throat sounds like a broken howl. 

Jim turns on his heel, runs home, only to throw himself into the Penguin’s waiting arms. Everything clicks into place as he remembers what this truly is, what they truly are. If Jim is a pawn, Oswald is the entire board. 

The pale man rubs soothing circles against his back as he holds Jim. When their eyes meet, the blonde swallows heavily. How could he have ever forgotten? Like a spider in the center of a web, Oswald controls the entire city. 

But then Jim wouldn’t or couldn’t take him down before. He had betrayed himself and this city all those years, and it had been done out of love. And even if Jim Gordon’s life had become a lie, that one bit was true. 

Therefore his voice steady as he speaks, even if the sobs made it hoarse. “I taste rotten milk,” he whispers, looking terrified at the Penguin, who in turn merely sighs. 

“Oh Jim,” he says. “And here I really never wanted to hurt you again.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, I'd be happy to receive a comment :).


End file.
